Losing Your Grip
by Stuch
Summary: Professional extractors are disappearing and turning up deceased. Eames is contacted by an old friend and asked to work on a job that will push his relaxed attitude to the law  and to his colleagues  to its limit. Is Arthur next on the list?
1. Chapter 1

"We set?" John looked round the other four faces in the car, the other four navy-blue suits with slackened red ties and received only three nods. One man, the youngest, stared out the rear passenger window and gripped nervously at the black duffel bag in his lap. "Nate? Nathan. Kid! Snap out of it okay? Keep your head in the job."

"It's just-" Nathan clutched the bag tighter, his blue eyes nervously met John's for a moment before flicking back out of the window.

"None of us are happy about it kid," John turned his seat to talk more, "But we've been through the whole job a dozen times, more even. You know the layout, you know where to be and what you need to do. Just do that and we'll be back here in no time." The two men squeezed into the back-seat with Nathan joined John's pep-talk. Old salts, veterans of their field and colleagues of John for over two years (even more if you included time spent under).

Long into his forties, Martin had the salt and pepper hair of a stressed life and had to hold back his no nonsense attitude to gruffly say, "All you have to do is watch people and make sure we don't draw any unwanted attention. After that, you'll be doing what comes natural and you won't remember all the pre-match nerves. Do things right and you won't even need to use that."

The man in the middle simply nodded. Younger than Martin by some years, Roger had lost most of the hair from his head and attempted to make up for that with a full, dark and well-maintained beard. He also had a softer touch and always knew what to say even if he didn't mean it, "Hey Nathan, you remember the time we practised this in the driver's dream and everything worked out fine?"

Nathan half-smiled and his grip on the bag loosened, "It went right every time."

Roger mussed up the kid's hair, "Exactly."

The fifth man had glasses that magnified his sunken eyes and a black moustache that twitched and tickled his top lip. He was the driver and said nothing until he felt their eyes on him, "Don't look at me. I just drive. See you guys on the way out."

Out of the car and into the torrential rain. Going in all at once would have raised suspicions, drawn looks and John had them make the walk separately - some half a minute apart. He watched Martin cross the side-walk, hair already slick with rain to his head, and disappear into the revolving door. Water danced on the surrounding vehicles and the ground outside, the rhythm of it filled the car. Roger went next with a playful punch on Nathan's shoulder and the kid looked at John as he moved over to the door. He then arranged the duffel bag over his shoulder and clicked open the door, "I won't let you down John." A nod in reply and Nathan took a deep breath as he left. The mood changed as the door closed behind him, he jogged to the entrance and John was left with the driver. A man none of the four had worked with before.

"You screw us on this-" John began.

"I won't-" the driver squeaked.

"Listen to me," John didn't blink, "Remember when you told us that first day you met your wife? A snow-covered November day in Central Park."

"Back in ninety-five," the driver spoke without thinking, "Yeah we shared stories that first day in the bar, you and me."

"You screw us. I find your wife. I take her back to that snowy November in New York and instead of meeting yourself, suddenly all she remembers is meeting me. And suddenly she questions your entire relationship, that doubt eating away at her mind," John gave him one more look before reaching for the door, "You just think about that when the nerves set in out here."

The driver gulped, "I won't leave without you."

"Good man." John got out, slammed the door and took a moment to himself in the all-encompassing noise of the rain. He hated making threats and had never been forced to carry one out - wasn't even sure if he _could_ do that - but the types of people in this line of work made a necessity of such things. He adjusted the shoulder strap on his bag and headed for the revolving doors across a side-walk empty in either direction. It could all still go wrong, there were many things even he simply could not prepare for. The mark himself was still the biggest unknown, inside the building and if he didn't know what they needed... John shook his head. _We can adapt_, he thought.

He pushed through the rotating panes of glass and into the polished marble interior of the bank. Wiping the rain (sweat?) from his brow with a sleeve, John surveyed the interior as he had a dozen times before and so far events went according to plan. The security guards were spread across the floor - one just inside the door, another by the tellers and the third toward the room of safety deposit boxes. Armed, as ever. Roger was over to the left of the main hall, pretending to fill in a deposit form close to the vault and boxes. Nathan and Martin were queuing amongst the dozen or so civilians in the bank. They nodded separately to John as he stood just inside the door and turned his left palm upward to check his watch. They waited for the signal, his first move.

John held the watch to his ear and made a confused face as he approached the guard to the right of the door, who reached for his side-arm. "Calm yourself buddy, what's the time? Think my watch has stopped." The second the guard's hand left his gun to lift a sleeve and check, John rushed him, put a leg behind his and over-balanced him to the ground with an arm twisted behind his back. By the time John looked up, Nathan and Martin had the guard at the cash desk on the stone floor and were restraining him with plasticuffs. The third guard hurried over, weapon drawn, pointed at John and completely unaware of Roger to his right. Their bearded colleague had opened his duffel bag, removed an M4 carbine and calmly walked over to hold it against the guard's head. The team's assumption was the bank's silent alarm would now be tripped. "Seven minutes!" John shouted, "You know your jobs."

The other three retrieved their own firearms, kept the three restrained guards separate and collected the bank tellers and patrons together in a loose group. All lay flat on the floor. Nathan and Martin watched the hostages, John and Roger headed through the back with one bag to the manager's office - the mark's office. They kicked down a locked door to find the overweight manager cowering behind his desk, "I- I- I- don't have access to the vault," his breathing was excessively laboured and John placed his bag on the walnut desk.

"Good," the team leader smirked, "Because I want access to a deposit box."

"Whi- oh my god!" There was a single shot, a thud that shocked the two robbers as much as the manager and they looked to each other.

"Watch him," John left the office to find Martin with a confused expression and Nathan clambered atop the cash desks, "Nathan, what the hell have you done? I said no unwanted attention!" He couldn't see the floor on the other side but from the screams and cries of the hostages, John could put the pieces together.

Nathan was terribly calm and almost shrugged as he said, "It's just a projection, what's the harm." Martin gave John a shocked glance, who in turn looked round to Roger at the entrance to the office. Roger physically slumped, Martin cursed and John tried to explain.

"Nathan, kid," John paused before he said, "We're _awake. _This is reality, you just killed a person with their life ahead of them and kids and a mortgage and all that other shit. These aren't projections!"

"But John," Nathan was incredulous, near-screaming, "They were all looking at me, they know that it's my dream!"

"They're staring at you because you're a man, with a gun, robbing a bank!" Martin couldn't hold it in, "You jackass! I'm not going down for murder just because you can't keep track! Where's your totem?"

"I lost-" he stopped, realised it was too late, "I lost it."

"Jesus," Roger sighed from over John's shoulder.

John checked his watch, "Five minutes. Nathan get in the office! Roger, watch the hostages. Take that bloody gun away from him!" Martin did so, John shoved Nathan into the office and took the dream-sharing equipment from the bag on the desk. "There's still time kid, you remember what you have to do? Kid!" He shook Nathan's shoulder.

"Yeah John, yeah," he was in shock, "I never meant to k- I thought we were-"

"Forget it," John hurried, pulling out needles and drips, "You will be in a few seconds. We only have about half an hour down there. You just do your thing and forget about what happened."

"Sure th... thing..." he waited as John ignored the bank manager's protests and inserted a needle into the flabby forearm. He did the same for himself, sat down in the third chair and depressed the button to pump the sedative. Two minutes would pass without incident in the bank, the hostage's blood would spread across the smooth floor and the guards would curse their own slovenly attitude to security. But down one level, Nathan and John had work to do.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is an idea that has been floating around in my mind since I first saw _Inception _at the movies last year. The idea of a world in which this dream-sharing technology and the types of career criminals that would use it for their own ends. Even the characters in the film itself are morally ambiguous and engage in corporate espionage. It will eventually come to put extractors against each other. I am the first to admit that my writing is OC-centric but I can promise you that Eames will definitely appear later as a character (a few chapters in). But this opening has been left purposely short and rather open so that I can gauge your opinion and listen to any ideas you have.**

**Hopefully I got across the idea of likeable guys working in a morally bankrupt situation and my plan was make it seem like they were performing a dream heist before revealing it to be an actual heist. Kind of hoping you guys fell for it. So read, enjoy? and review. Looking forward to any and all reviews.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Nice day down here, Nathan," John shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and turned to find himself outside the bank once again. He instinctively checked his watch to find out what time Nathan was dreaming it was, "Or should I call you Mr. Ruebens?" Ruebens was a mid-level extractor, nothing to John but a name and photograph passed over in a manilla envelope. To Nathan he was an old acquaintance and somebody whom he could impersonate almost perfectly. He usually did it for a laugh down at the bar after a job - Nathan, Ruebens and whoever else happened to be in the team - but John found another use for a young, unemployed forgery expert with a grudge.

"John," Nathan pleaded and stared at his gleaming black shoes, "I can't go through with this, not after what I did up there."

It was a long shot and not within his nature to lie in such a way but it was for the good of the job, "What are you talking about? Everything went fine, we just need to find out which box Ruebens uses and we get back up there and out." Making him think what happened was a dream was not a fair thing to do but it was too late for Nathan now, he was a lost cause as an extractor. He had lost his totem and even if he made a new one, he would never know for sure what was reality. Still, using him like this to finish the job didn't sit well with John.

"B-but I killed someone!" This drew looks from projections passing in the street, John turned Nathan to face him, straightened the red tie and gently patted his cheek.

"I think I'd remember something like that," John felt a twist in his gut as he added, "You trust me don't you Nathan?" The young forced a smile back at his team leader and nodded slowly, John's gut twist tighter. _It's for the the best,_ he reminded himself. He placed hand on the young man's shoulder in a forced attempt to show him some solace and compassion.

"It was a young woman with blonde hair, she wore a white dress and had a brown raincoat. Stared at me even after I shot her," there were tears in his eyes, "I didn't mean to- I thought we were-"

"Are you certain this wasn't a dream?" It was all John could do not slap his face and tell him to get on with it, but confusing Nathan's sense of what was real was the only choice. This was dangerous in itself and even worse consequences would arise when they got back to reality, but the job always came first with John. Always. He led his bemused colleague to the revolving doors once more and inside, if it was going to go wrong now was the time. Making Nathan see the same room in which he had killed a person, the same marble floor that she slowly spread herself across. The kid glanced over to the area of floor and then back in front. _Come on Nathan, forget about it._

The bank manager, the fat, sweaty mark was out plodding his way around the bright main hall - sunlight streamed in through the enormous skylight, great beams caught the dust in the air. Upon catching the gaze of the manager, Nathan's entire manner and personal presence changed. His timid steps morphed into a near-cocky swagger, his hands that were held so tightly at his sides were then shoved deep into his pockets. But most importantly his nervous and stony face had broken into a wide grin. _That a boy, never doubted you_. John lied to himself.

"Mr. Ruebens!" the manager waddled over and his rubbing hands separated for an embrace that Nathan didn't take part in, "Will you be making a deposit today?" Banks never cared where money came from, only where it was going. The manager was a comic sight to behold. His weight to one side, he had long strands of sparse hair on top of his head - as though length could make up for a lack of coverage.

"Not today Mr. Fretson," Nathan brought out Ruebens' slight souther twang in his voice, "Just a quick peek into my deposit box today." The fat face visibly slumped with disappointment but he soon recovered the upbeat patter.

"Of course! Of course!" he looked at John for a moment too long, as though trying to place him, "Sorry sir but do I know you?"

"Doubt it, I've only ever been in here once," John put out his hand and made up a name on the spot, "Bill Costrin." The manager's hand was cold, clammy and after the shake John felt the urge to wipe his own but smiled instead.

"Right this way gentlemen," Fretson waddled and huffed his way to the guarded room of deposit boxes with the two imposters in tow. John gave a friendly smile to a projection of the same guard he had dropped on his ass back in the real bank, he smiled back bemused. The manager unlocked a metal cabinet of keys on hooks with one from a small ring from his own pocket and ran a finger along a row, "Which number was yours again?"

John froze and his mind raced, _What now? _If the mark didn't know the box number the the whole job was back to square one. It was Nathan's turn to keep calm under pressure and his jokey, likeable Ruebens shrugged, hands still in pockets, "Surely you know if by now?" A smile and a wink to John. There was a pause from the manager, a hesitation in his fingertips that had John's heart in his mouth and his hand reaching into his jacket for the holstered pistol. Had he been trained against extractors? Were there armed projections working their way through the maze of streets, dead ends and paradoxes that surrounded the bank?

After what felt like an age the manager took a key in his fat fingers and John caught sight of the numbers one, five and eight above the hook on which they had hung. He then took Nathan to one side and whispered in his ear, "Keep him busy, need to check something in his office." He couldn't shake the guilt as he left a smiling, content Nathan doing the thing he loved and acting so perfectly in his role as Mr. Ruebens.

John hurried to the office, nodding to the guard again as he left and checking around him as he tried the door handle. Unlocked. He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He nearly turned, nearly went back to get Nathan and have the happy ending that he only hoped could exist. The ending where they all got out, escaped the bank with the contents of the deposit box and drove away without any trouble. The ending in which Nathan rediscovered his grip on reality, made himself another totem and they happily went onto the next job.

What happened instead is that John took the pistol out from under his armpit and found the silencer that up until that moment hadn't been in his pocket, but was. He quickly screwed it on and took that one final breath before he pointed the weapon to his own head and- stopped. Another quick check of his pockets, no lighter, no totem. Now that he was certain, he shot himself.

He pushed himself out of the chair in the manager's office to find Nathan and Mr. Fretson still happily under with forty seconds left on the clock. He rummaged through the bag still upon the desk and produced a syringe, "Roger! Get in here!" His bald head popped round the door frame. John held the syringe in his teeth, found the ring of keys in the manager's pocket of his enormous suit jacket and mumbled with the plastic in his mouth, "Box one hundred and fifty eight. Get on it." Roger stood in the doorway, carbine slung across his chest and stared at the sleeping Nathan. "Christ man! Just open that box, let me worry about what's going on in here!" He handed the ring of keys by the correct choice and Roger left, cursing.

He heard them outside, muttering to each other, "He's leaving the kid down there."

"Better him than all of us," was Martin's level-headed reply. John took the syringe out of his mouth and slapped Nathan's wrist to find a vein, he rushed and made a mess of putting the needle in. There were twenty seconds left and John suddenly felt a hand grab him by the wrist, Nathan was waking up, groggy. But his eyes met John's and the team leader whispered an apology as he injected the sedative. Nathan's eyes closed once and his body went limp. He had less trouble giving the rest of the syringe to the manager, drool dribbling onto his shirt and tie. He removed the drips and hid the dream-sharing equipment back in the duffel bag. One last look over his shoulder at Nathan slumped in the chair and out of the office, the door broken off its hinges.

Martin shouted over from his watch on the hostages, "John! You get it?" He nodded curtly in reply and joined Roger in the room lined with boxes. He was unlocking box one hundred and fifty eight and gave John the pleasure of pulling it out. Inside was a small velvet bag which was snatched and put into his pocket.

"Let's get the hell out of here," John said solemnly and checked his watch, "Two minutes before the cops should arrive."

"I hope it was worth leaving the kid behind," Roger gave him a cold look, "Is it really necessary?"

He shoved the bearded man against the wall of metal drawers, "You think it was easy? It's on me! Nathan's fate is all on me! Now come on."

All three calmly strode out of the bank and into their getaway car. The police would arrive and arrest Nathan for the murder of the young woman and get nothing out of him other than three faces the authorities already knew and three made-up first names. If they were really lucky Nathan would tell officers the truth - that they were there to steal a small item used by a professional extractor in order to keep track of what was reality and what was a dream - and be treated as a complete head case for the trouble. The driver was paid his share (and his share of Nathan's share), disappeared forever and without a word.

The three men dumped the car and stopped out of state for a coffee and a debrief which in the end boiled down to one thing. Martin sat across from the other two in the red leather booth and sucked down the tar-like joe, "Well I guess we need yet _another _forgery artist."

John sighed, "I have a favour to call in, but he won't like it." He turned his zippo lighter over and over in his hand, flicked it open and shut.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: No reviews of the first chapter? I suppose I have to earn them, which is fair. Eames is the man who owes 'John' a favour and he won't be best pleased with the next 'name and photograph in a manilla envelope'. These three extractors will be the villains of my story and it is always a pleasure to write from the villain's perspective, to try and explain their motives and character flaws. But the next chapter will be from Eames perspective as 'John' gives him the job offer.**

**Anyway, please review if the feeling takes you. Any and all ideas on where the story goes from here are happily accepted.**


	3. Chapter 3

Eames sat waiting for his breakfast in a small, quaint café in London's West End and lost away down a street from the hustle and noise of the city's busier roads. If there was enough time between jobs (or even between flights in and out of Heathrow) he would come here and relax in anonymity. That's not to say he wasn't known there - the proprietor and staff always greeted him with a genuine smile and hearty pleasantries - just that those who frequented and worked there knew nothing about him. He had taken himself a table against one gaudily-papered wall that he could lean against in his chair and watch the others enjoying a break from their day. A girl had come over and taken his order, a plain-looking young woman whose curved weren't entirely disguised by the black apron. Her blonde ponytail bounced with each nod of her head as she remembered the specials of the day.

He politely let her finish before speaking very gently to her, "No need to hear those, just a full breakfast and a mug of whatever Rupert is letting pass for coffee these days."

The girl giggled and bit her bottom lip, "Coming right up." He watched her walk away and smiled to himself as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He lost himself in the noise of the establishment, the sounds of plates being stacked, of coffee cups being placed on saucers, beans being machine-ground and his bacon sizzling on the grill. It didn't matter where he travelled, however many five-star hotels his clients would put him up in, Eames preferred the café. He felt warm here, like he was home. The girl came back with his coffee and a bright smile, "Mr. Epsom says he's giving you extra bacon, being his favourite customer and all."

"He said that? What a sweetheart he is," Eames scratched at his ear, "That means I might get the same amount as the other customers. You new here, honey? I'm sure I would have remembered someone as lovely as you."

She blushed and patted at the front of her apron, trying to flatten a stubborn fold, "Only been working here a few weeks."

"Sandra!" a voice shouted hoarsely from the kitchen, "Stop flirting with that cheap charlatan and clear the tables." Her flushed face frowned and she shrugged at Eames who then shouted back in her defence.

"Leave the poor girl be! It was my fault!" The owner gave no reply to this and Eames hushed his voice for Sandra's ears only, "Don't worry he's all talk and no trousers." And winked at her which brought back the enchanting smile across the rosy lips. She shimmied off once more and cleared an empty table. The bell attached to the rickety front door rang twice in quick succession and Eames heard a familiar mid-American accent apologise to the waitress and looked up from his coffee, managing to conceal his surprise in a derogatory comment.

"Castlebeck," Eames reached for a pack of sugar and shook it gently, "I see your sense of style hasn't improved." The man looked down at his navy-blue suit contrasted by the white shirt and red tie.

"A stopped clock is right twice a day, Eames," Castlebeck replied, "We don't all subscribe to 'Floral Shirt and Sports Jacket Monthly'. I worry that you are too easy a man to find these days. May I?" He pointed to the other chair at the table.

Eames shrugged, "Why not? Very few know I like this place and most of _them_ are dead." Castlebeck took up the seat and leaned back with his eye on Eames. "So what makes you seek me out after all these years?"

"Well-" the man was cut off by the waitress coming with Eames' plate of greasy breakfast and they both leaned back to give her room as she placed the his meal in front of him. She took her notepad out of the pouch in her apron and turned to Castlebeck.

"Can I get you anything?" she had her pen at the ready but she glanced in Eames direction as he pleasantly smiled up at her.

"Just a coffee, thank you dear," Castlebeck tapped his finger impatiently on the table.

"Ignore my friend," Eames laughed, "He finds me after two, maybe three years and all he wants to do is talk business." He looked back at his old friend, "He never did know when to walk away from something."

Castlebeck softened in light of Eames' mocking, "Well for the sake of not being such a grouch, I suppose I will also have a slice of that wonderful looking chocolate cake in the cabinet." The lovely, young girl walked away, Eames watched her once more and gave his old friend a knowing look. "Some things never change, you are still a natural hit with the ladies."

Eames delicately took a napkin from the table and tucked it into the collar of his shirt, "I do try. So what are the chances of Castlebeck finding me here today, I wonder?" He pointed his knife at him before cutting up one of the slightly burnt sausages and watching the reaction to his words as he chewed.

"Firstly, I go by John now," the man leaned back in his chair and reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket to produce a chrome zippo lighter, which he flicked open and shut, "And yes, it did take me quite a lot of effort to find you here. I had to ask around the usual extractor suspects, find out when you would next be in London and then staked the place out for a while until I saw you come in some half an hour ago. And if this were a dream, I wouldn't have my totem now would I?" Eames picked up the salt-shaker and seasoned the scrambled egg, John watched with interest. "And what of your totem, Eames?"

"I never showed you it when we worked together, why would I now?" he grinned and mixed in a little ketchup to the egg, "Am I safe in assuming that this is some sort of job offer? Nobody ever wants to just say hello anymore, but to whisk me away on some life-threatening quest for cash. Manners appear to be dead in the industry." Their conversation was paused as the girl brought John his mug of coffee and hefty slice of chocolate cake before floating away once more.

"I am afraid so," John put the lighter back in his pocket, produced a small velvet bag and placed it on the table, "This is a totem that belonged to an extractor called Ruebens, I have collected a number of them lately." He tossed the bag over to Eames.

He opened it to find one detached corner of a Rubik's cube - red, green and white for what it's worth - and put it back in again. He looked at John for a while and then went back to eating his breakfast, "Why do I get the feeling I don't even want to know?"

"Ruebens was better than most," John smiled and his blues eyes gleamed, "Most I was able to simply take from their pockets whilst they were under. Many extractors are far too trusting, myself included. He had a good grip on reality, kept his totem in a safety deposit box and checked it once every so often. I heard he shot himself in the head last week."

Eames stopped eating as he noticed a car go past the café, a red hatchback. The very same car had gone past not two minutes earlier followed soon after by a blue convertible with the top down. And wouldn't you know it, the same blue convertible went past again. He looked at John, as did the waitress and everybody else in the establishment. _Clever bastard, _thought Eames. "I hope you realise I was just playing along," he chuckled at John and tucked into his bacon, "I am impressed though."

"It was the cars wasn't it?" John sighed, "I spent so much time getting the details in here just right that I rushed the surroundings, decided it best to give a few clues. Even had to make myself a fake totem which you know can be quite dangerous."

"Then how do you know for sure we aren't actually catching up over a fatty breakfast?" Eames wore his cheeky smirk, "Anyway enough of these games. An imaginary breakfast and a young girl flirting with me? I'll accept this dream." The projections in the café went back to their imaginary, subconscious lives. "Who is she anyway?" he said with a mouthful of bacon.

John shrugged, "Blonde? Rather unremarkable but with a naughty sparkle in her eye? Sounds like you created that one all by yourself."

Eames lifted the napkin at his neck to wipe his mouth, "Yes she rather does seem like the sort to wander through my dreams. But no more talk of my carnal desires. What's the job? Who's next on your employer's hit list?"

John cut into the chocolate cake with a fork, "Cobb." And he let that hang in the air for a moment or two.

"That is quite a leap from mid-level extractors," Eames turned serious yet remained understandably intrigued, "Besides, nobody knows where he has disappeared to. So if this place does happen to have some kind of safe or vault, you won't find that information inside."

"You think so little of me," John lifted the fork to his mouth, "I just wanted to show that is entirely possible, simple even, to convince a dreamer that a dream is real. If more than a little dangerous for the person trying to achieve it."

"But you didn't fool me," Eames laid his cutlery on the plate and lifted his mug of coffee, "You can't create a dreamscape complicated enough to fool a dreamer indefinitely."

"Sometimes all you need is the feeling of a specific time and place," the piece of cake disappeared in his mouth, "I remember after one job, you and I came here. I had a piece of a cake very similar to this one. If I close my eyes-" he did so, "-and just taste it. I am there or rather, here, once more." Eames wasn't entirely convinced and had another sip of coffee as John told him, "In fact, so excited were you to enjoy this place's wonderful breakfast that you didn't even notice the salt-shaker is entirely empty and yet..." John took the visibly empty salt-shaker and poured a small mound on the table in front of him.

"A man is willing to suspend his disbelief for certain things, I will admit," Eames put down the coffee, "But I wonder what this has to do with finding Cobb."

"Arthur knows where he is," John remained impassive at this revelation, although knowing exactly what this suggested about the job he was offering to his old friend. But then he didn't have the knowledge of these people that Eames did. 'Friends' might have been a bit of a stretch, but they were certainly colleagues who he enjoyed working with and whom he would never wish any harm. "But this isn't just a case of stealing his totem and letting him kill himself to end what he thinks is a dream. Arthur has far too good a grip on reality for that anyway and besides, we need something he knows."

"We?" Eames chuckled and rested his chin on one hand, "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

"There are three of us," John assured him, "Myself and-"

"Those two ex-squaddies you do so love to work with?" he interrupted John, "Bull-headed military types, far too many of them in this industry. Dream-sharing requires a technical touch and something... artistic."

It was John's turn to laugh back at him, "You have been spending too much time with Cobb. Does he still tell people that it was Mal who came up with the totem?" Eames said nothing and simply watched as his old colleague descended into a rant. "Anybody would think that dream-sharing didn't exist before those two came along. We all had totems before that, you included, we just didn't both giving them names," John's fingertips tapped vigorously on the frayed, plastic tablecloth and his voiced got louder, "And architects? We were doing just fine with various disciplines of engineer to build our dreams. Cobb bangs some artistic broad and all of a sudden, architects are the only way to go."

"Are you quite finished?" Eames had heard enough and let John compose himself before he continued, "I agree with you to an extent. We had this argument over and over when Cobb appeared on the scene and I won't bother having it with you again," Eames noticed a crack in the wallpaper and picked at it, "You are the best technical dreamer I ever worked with. But you never wanted to push the envelope or the boundaries, you only ever went as far as the job dictated. Cobb and Mal are- were artists and let me stretch my abilities ever further."

"That is what I am offering you now," John was almost pleading with him, "And against one of the best point men in the business." He checked his watch, "I only have a few more minutes, I need an answer from you."

"I think you already have it old chum," Eames heaped on the sarcasm, "This is too much. Robbing banks? Killing other extractors? What happened to you?"

"I reached the same fork in the road that you did," John checked his watch again, "I just didn't go down the same path as you."

"One last thing," Eames scratched his chin, "How do you hope to fool Arthur?"

John stood up from the table and straightened his tie, "I won't even try to fool him. I will give him a dream that _wants _to be real. Enjoy your flight." And he disappeared, Eames blinked and he was gone. He sat there for the longest time, turning John's words and intentions over and over in his mind. In the end he moved his empty breakfast plate to one side and pulled the cake toward him and the fork in hand. The waitress came back to take his plate and smiled her smile at him.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she cocked her hips to one side and there appeared that sparkle in her eye.

"Now that you mention it my dear, what would you say to-" He didn't get a chance to finish the sentence and found himself suddenly in Heathrow's business class lounge, alone. He was blinded by the early morning sun and looked over at the comfortable leather chair across the table from him. Reaching forward, he placed a hand on the seat to find it still warm. He didn't bother to check his wrists for signs of a drip. He simply smiled to himself and unfolded his newspaper.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, there's not much to say. I have suggested it all in this chapter. I won't bother asking for reviews.**


	4. Chapter 4

"You're listening to JLPR, non-stop oldies. The music that your parents hated and now your kids do too. It's just gone eleven and I slept all day so I could stay up with you _all night-_" The excessive emphasis on the final two words brought a groan from Martin and forced him to click off the car's radio. He fell back into old Buick's passenger seat and the beginnings of rain on the windscreen and rood became the new soundtrack for John and himself.

"Christ," Martin muttered, "We spend three days in England with nothing but glorious sunshine, then only goddamn rain from the second we step out of O'Hare." The windows were beginning to fog up, it crept out from the corners of the glass and would soon threaten to steal their entire view of the apartment's entrance across the street, up and to their left. John wound down his window on the driver's side, the glass squeaked against the rubber seal, "You don't like the rain? Just the noise of it is enough to make me forget my troubles."

"It's not the rain itself that I can't stand," Martin took his window down halfway and searched through the mess of litter on the dashboard, "Too much of any kind of weather makes me... dubious." The car was awash with fast-food bags, snack wrappers and empty coffee cups. Two days' worth were spread out between the dashboard, the back seat and at both men's feet.

"Relying on the dreamer's subconscious for the weather is lazy and self-imposing," John reached over the steering wheel and found a pack of cigarettes almost instantly. He held them out without looking and they were snatched without a word of thanks, "Especially when you consider how simple it is to make a short weather cycle. The weather should affect the mood and not the other way round." Martin chuckled and pulled a cigarette out from the pack with his lips, John took his lighter out and his cohort leaned over until his lungs filled with sweet poison. The cigarettes were tossed back amongst the greasy scraps of paper and he exhaled out of the gap in the window, the grey-blue smoke cut up by the rain. John checked his watch, "He should be heading out soon."

"Do we actually go in this time? I'm worried the guy in the coffee place thinks I'm some sort of bum," another long draw on the cigarette and he broke down into a coughing fit of laughter, "I reckon he knows I try to wash myself with the sink in the bathroom." Two days living out of the car had left them less than presentable. The four block walk - far enough away not to accidentally bump into the mark - for supplies doubled as a toilet break or exercise or a chance to brush up on their dental hygiene. They had with them a change of clothes but the rain meant their time spent in car was a damp and smelly affair. Both men's hair was greasy, unkempt and their facial growth had drawn John unsavoury glances that morning as he queued for their caffeine fix. Occasionally one of them would recline the chair as far as it would go and attempt to get a few hours of shut-eye. But whatever happened there was always at least one pair of eyes on the door to the apartment building. Always.

Arthur had left his apartment on the first night of their watch at half past eleven, the collar of his coat pulled up in a futile attempt against the onslaught of the rain and his head on a swivel. He ran across the water bubbling in the street and around the next corner. "I got him," Martin had groaned, grabbed his raincoat from the car's backseat and disappeared to tail him leaving John alone in the car. It was midnight before he returned, soaked and cursing, "I stayed a block behind him. He goes to some old building ten blocks west." He panted, dripped over the car, threw his coat into the back and rubbed his hands repeatedly over his head to try and dry his ever-greying hair, "Tomorrow night, you follow him." John was fast asleep (he didn't remember any dreams he may have had) when Arthur returned, Martin must have slapped him across the face because his cheek burned as his colleague filled him in. It was five in the morning and the noises of the new day were already in full swing. The next night was the same. He left after eleven and came back around five. Arthur's movements during the day were much the same as any other person, he went out for food, for the paper and all other manner of daily sundries. But it was only at night, when presumably Arthur went out to work on some new job, that John and Martin would have enough time to do what they needed to do.

So they sat and waited, amongst the collected mess and noise of the rain. "Do you think Eames warned him?" Martin asked the obvious question.

"I'm counting on it," John stretched his arm out the window and felt the rain drops land on the palm of his hand, "Arthur's not stupid enough to get in contact with Cobb, but just having him in the forefront of his mind should be enough." Silence again from the two men.

Martin laughed through his nose, "They always promised that we would get to see the world and visit fantastic, exotic locales and then everybody just dreams of the same old shit you get in real life. All these cities just look the same after a while, Chicago's nice though."

"They promised us a lot of things," John's voice trailed off.

"You're no better," Martin goaded him, "What did you promise Nathan down there in the dream? You tell him everything was going to be all right with that dead broad?"

John's hand outside the window tightened into a fist and tapped gently against the door, "I told him what happened in the bank was a dream, convinced him. I made him no promises but fed him lies." He turned his head to look over at Martin, "Unless you'd prefer to be in jail? You took your share of his happy enough." Martin took one last, long draw on the cigarette and flicked it out of the window onto the sidewalk, a hiss as a drop of rain came into contact with the final ember.

"You should have shot him," Martin was dead pan, his face illuminated by the slow moving headlights of a passing car, "Would have been kinder. You should have seen him, cool as a cucumber when he shot her." It was one of those things they didn't tell John about dream-sharing, especially when on the job and killing projections with reckless abandon, he got used to killing people without the normal repercussions of actually doing so. But trust in other people was the first thing to disappear. He learnt quickly that in order to be a good extractor, trust simply wasn't something he worked with. And eventually he placed more importance in a trinket than the word of his own mother.

As such John and Martin never spoke of their lives outside of work, not even knowing each other's real first names. Nothing that could be used against each other should things turn sour, no significant others or family members who could be used as a threat. Martin had said once that any woman he knew intimately would charge for time spent being interrogated about him. A joke? John didn't speak of his life because there was nothing to say, there was being a loner and there was just being lonely. The third member of the team, Roger - away on a separate mission - was at the other end of the scale. When not on the job he talked about himself constantly, but never kept track of his lies. In the two years they had known each other John had counted five different families that Roger claimed to have.

"He's gone now," John tried to end the line of conversation, "He killed a woman and should face the consequences."

"And the consequences of robbing a bank are sitting in our own filth for two days in a busted up Buick?" Martin pulled a grimace as he discovered the contents of a coffee cup were less than savoury, "If you're going to have skewed ethics you should at least be consistent." John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not take a swing at him, as right as he was. This could have went on all night, John trying to explain his actions and Martin calling his team leader on the bullshit and hypocrisy he sometimes spouted.

And perhaps it would have if Arthur hadn't left his apartment, instantly drenched by the downpour and looking suspiciously around the street. Just for a second, John thought Arthur saw him with his keen eyes peering through the rain and windshield, doubts crept into his mind. _Does he know? Did he catch us following him and is just playing along so we can fall into his own trap? _The mark is always the one variable, no matter how predictable he might seem. That's why they were going in on the third night and not the second, why John had to follow Arthur with his own eyes and make sure Martin got it right. No trust, in Arthur or in his partner.

"It's about goddamn time," Martin pulled the door handle but was stopped.

"Wait until he goes around the corner first," John said and turned to retrieve a small sports bag from the back seat.

The hallway was dimly lit and the wallpaper flaked at the corners. Their footsteps were more than audible on the hardwood stairs and floor. "Can't you go a little bit faster?" John whispered, afraid that any second would bring a pair of eyes out of one of the other doors on the floor. A pair of eyes that would see Martin knelt at the door and attempting to open the lock with a manual pick gun. The low grinding sound of the device was infuriatingly incessant.

"Tell me again," Martin stopped his work and stared up at him, "Why I am the one doing this and not you?" He waited for a response and scratched the tip of nose.

"Fine. Just get on with it."

"No," he was indignant and repeated himself, "Tell me again why I am the one doing this and not you."

"Because I don't know how to use it properly," John eventually muttered to keep him happy.

"Thank you," Martin went back to his work, "Now shut the hell up until I am finished."

It was a studio apartment, expansive, empty and what little furniture there was in the place hugged the walls away from the windows. John quietly closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights. They left their wet shoes and coats just inside the door. Their footsteps were muffled by socks as Martin headed over to check the windows and John wandered to the other end of the minimalist living space. A solid double bed was hidden behind a semi-partition, along with a bedside cabinet and wardrobe built into the red brick wall. White sheets, white shirts. He reached into the duffel bag and retrieved a camera. He took a snap of Arthur's sleeping arrangement before Martin called over.

The first thing that struck John was that this place was simply too large for one person and all but empty. So much potential for an interior designer to go nuts and create something fantastic. _Or an architect, _John thought to himself, _Oh Arthur._

"Check this shit out," he pointed to a section of wall covered in newspaper cuttings, most were from the business sections and concerned Fischer dismantling his father's empire, "Proud of himself much?" But John was more interested in a scrap tucked away in the corner, half-obscured by gaudy cuttings. It was a hand-written thank you letter in a young woman's hand-writing, signed; 'Ariadne'.

"What have we here?" he leant in to read it, "Now why would a young man keep such a boring letter from a young lady?" It was too soon to be looking for angles, ways to work his way into Arthur's mind, but an idea was an idea. He took a photograph and moved on. John worked systematically until he had pictures of the entire apartment, the tiny kitchen tucked away in one corner, the small assortment of gym equipment and even the pristine bathroom attached to the inner wall. The final picture John took before they collected their shoes, coats and left apartment was of a drawing board with a light layer of dust and a leather pianist stool in front of it. Away from the rest of items on its own, special and unique.

Sometimes John discovered that the first idea was the one that grew the largest and most complex but they would have to talk to Roger before deciding what the plan would be to get the better of Arthur and his studious mind. Martin was having trouble pulling on his second shoe and hopped unsteadily as he asked, "How come Roger gets to travel to Paris while we're stuck in boring ol' Chicago?"

"Because he can speak French."

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><p><strong>AN: First off, thanks to my first review and subscribers. Secondly... secondly nothing. Reviews and ideas are always welcome though.**


	5. Chapter 5

The lecture theatre emptied quickly into the adjacent hall - it was the last period before lunch and the rush was on. Ariadne was in no such hurry and slowly put away her pads of paper and stationary in her old, tattered bag. She didn't enjoy the bumping, the forced apologies and so waited until the room was almost empty before making her own move to the exit, even the professor was gone by the time she pushed the door open out into the hall. It stopped suddenly with a crack and a thud that travelled up her left arm. Shocked, she peered sheepishly through the thin window built in the door to find a middle-aged man knocked to the floor, checking his nose with one hand.

"Vous imbécile maladroit!" he muttered under his breath, "Pourriez avez cussé mon nez!" He took his hand away from his face to reveal kind eyes, a thick but well-kept beard and a heavily receded hairline.

Ariadne apologised profusely and offered a hand to help the man up, "Mon cher monsieur, excusé! J'aurias du pondre plus de soins!"

The man declined the help and pulled himself back to his feet, his beard stretched into a small, inviting and honest smile, "Votre accent? Américaine?" The man tucked his shirt back in and unbuttoned his collar. He carried a suit jacket under one arm and his sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow.

"Oui," she responded before a little shake of her head, "I mean, yes." She was wary of strangers and rarely stopped to talk to them, but she had knocked this poor guy to the floor and felt as though she at least owed it to humour his conversation for a minute or so. He seemed harmless enough and it was a public space, students passed regularly in the hall.

"Roger," the stranger outstretched his hand this time, "And don't worry about the door. My own fault for walking so close to the walls."

"Ariadne," she took his hand with the most timid of shakes, "And I am very sorry about that, my mind was away elsewhere." Lost away in the the past or off in the future, anywhere but the present. Where a project needed completion and seemingly no amount of sacrificed lunch hours brought this any closer.

"Ariadne?" Roger's voice rose in surprise, "Your name is already famous in some small circles." He returned her hand stepped closer to the wall to allow a large group of students to pass.

Ariadne sighed, "I know, the girl who helped Theseus out of the maze. My parents have left me somewhat cursed." How many times had she had this conversation with some creepy old man? How many had used this as some sort of sad pick-up line? Enough that she had learned several ways to wriggle out of it. She had started to imagine a fake phone number to fob off on him when Roger said something she didn't expect.

"No, no, no," he smiled wider and dug his hands casually into his pockets, "In far smaller circles than that you are famous as the girl who helped _Cobb_ out of his own maze." Ariadne suddenly felt uneasy and unsure. She instinctively went for her pocket, the bishop and she felt its weight. She knew there would be those who would seek her out as a way to get to Cobb, especially after he had mysteriously disappeared. It was a mercy of Cobb's not to have told her anything of his location and had only maintained minimal contact with her since they performed the inception on Fischer. He had wanted to give back her life after the job, to do with what she pleased. She went back to school in Paris, although not straight away. There were those few fleeting weeks when-

Roger instantly went on the defensive upon seeing her suspicious reaction and broke into her train of thought, "I apologise, didn't mean to scare you. But the Fischer job is whispered about amongst extractors in filthy bars and private conversations. Even more so the fact that a first time architect was involved. I know you can't take my word for it, but this isn't a dream." Her totem reinforced this, but she remained wary of this man and his, as yet unknown, intentions.

"I should come clean," Roger itched at his beard under his chin, "I was actually looking to bump into you today, though perhaps not this violently." She smiled at the pun and allowed him to continue explaining himself. "But since your first name isn't really much to go on, I had to go to your department head who said you'd be here before lunch."

This much she had guess already, from the moment he had mentioned that name. The name which had flipped her world upside and then she was left to figure out where it all left her. She had helped him - some might say that she had saved him - and all he could do in return was to disappear. She wasn't sure if her next guess was correct but she voiced it with confidence nonetheless, "I don't know where he is."

Roger shrugged, "Nobody does, it would seem. If it was thought that you did know then far more dangerous men than me would have already paid you a visit. I am simply here with the offer of lunch and perhaps a job. If you say no I will get going and not bother you again." Just like Cobb. But this time she had a much better idea of what she would be letting herself in for, she knew what awaited her down the rabbit-hole. She even still went down there occasionally, recreationally. Addiction was the wrong word as she could often go entire weeks without the desire to artificially dream. But every so often - usually to wrap her head around an idea that would occur to her during a lecture - she would slip into some dank alley and into some dark door that few knew existed. It was Cobb's name that had gotten her in that first time, but soon she became known of her own accord as word spread throughout the dream-sharing community of the inception performed on Fischer.

At the school she was just another student but in those dark, secret corners of Paris she was almost famous. Though this was the first job offer that her exploits had produced and at the very least she would get a free lunch out of it, "I choose where?" Ariadne hid her excitement at the apparent offer and played it cool.

"Of course," Roger nodded, "Just lead the way."

Out of the architectural school they went and after some five minutes of walking in relative silence the reached a café where Ariadne would occasionally meet friends. It was open, outdoors and very public. Roger pulled out a chair for her from a table in the shade, put his jacket over the back of the other and then sat across from her, leaning back from the table. Ariadne saw him as an open book, ready to answer any and all questions she could put to him about this job opportunity. But before she had a chance to pick at his brain a waiter came over.

Roger took what seemed to her an age to order nothing but a coffee and in haste to get on with her own Spanish inquisition she ordered the same. Roger opened out his arms, "It's on me, feel free to go nuts." She tapped her fingers on the table, gave him a stern look and brought out of him little more than a smirk, "Ah but of course you want us to get down to business and discuss the particulars, find out if this is worth losing a precious lunch hour over. First though, I think we should learn a little more about each other." This seemed fair and Ariadne couldn't deny her curiosity about this man, his offer aside.

"How long have you been in this field of work?" she went large and vague for her first question. His answer was far more revealing than she had expected.

"Field?" there was a succession of two clinks as the waiter brought their coffees and left when he saw there was no opportunity to increase his chance of a tip, "I work in the _industry_ of dream sharing. I cannot claim to offer you work so nearly as glamorous as that which Cobb did or would. But I have been artificially enhancing my dreams for well over a decade... for whatever purpose." He lifted his coffee and waited for a response.

"You were part of the military dream-sharing experiments?" Ariadne pulled her chair closer to the table in interested, the cup of coffee long forgotten for this precious information.

"Cobb mentioned them to you?"

"He mentioned it once and never again," Ariadne remembered that first day in the Parisian warehouse some half hour from where they both sat, "It was off-hand as though it was something he had no interest in but felt he should say out of courtesy to those involved." Cobb and Arthur both seemed to have some military training, if not background but she had always assumed it was just from their work as an extractor and his point man. Eames, on the other hand, had often left Ariadne feeling uneasy with her not quite able to really put her finger on why that was. His 'happy chap' attitude had always seemed at complete loggerheads with his cold and calculating manner when going through the motions of actual work.

"There have been a few generations of extractors and so forth within the... field as you call it," Roger explained and gestured with his hands, "I cannot claim to have been there from its inception, if you'll forgive the pun, and nor can any of the men I work with. But we were all there before Cobb and Mal, I can promise you that. Which might go some way to explaining his attitude toward dream-sharing's early days. Even Eames was around before he came along." Eames being ex-military was not a shock so much as a revelation that fitted perfectly in place.

"You worked with Eames?" the job offer was now almost forgotten in exchange for this gossip, "And you don't think highly of Cobb?" Yet Roger kept her waiting even longer, sipping his coffee before then taking his time to answer.

"I have never personally been on a job with the smarmy bastard, but I now move with a man who worked extensively with him a few years back," Roger chose his next words very carefully and Ariadne tried to take apart, analyse them as he spoke, "That Cobb is a talented, forward-thinking extractor is not in doubt. And whilst it is down to personal opinion as to whether he is the best, nobody can argue that he gets all the choice jobs. Though it should be mentioned that he didn't make many friends on his way to the top. Few do." Other students were jealous of Ariadne, of how the Professor had chosen her for some extra-curricular activities. Little did they know how much those weeks almost cost her. When you do well and succeed there are always those who question how it happened and claim that it should have been in them in your place. She saw this same jealousy in Roger's words about Cobb. A bitterness that becomes an obsession to see a man's eventual fall.

"Maybe if you were a better team of extractors you would be getting the jobs that Cobb does?" she felt this a fair point and when Roger didn't react badly to it at all she added, "What sort of things do you guys get instead?"

"Cobb gets the jobs he does because the man is an artist and suffers from all the delusions of grandeur that go along with that," the man could give as good as he got, gently mocking her as she had him, "The sorts of jobs I am involved are a little..."

"Illegal?" she raised an eyebrow and allowed herself a little smirk.

"All extractions are technically illegal," Roger finished off his coffee and clicked his finger for the waiter who was not amused, "Une autre? Merci. But we use dream-sharing as an extension of other illegal activities. Cobb only showed you the shiny outline of the industry, I work in its dark underbelly." The potential job offer jumped back into the forefront of her mind.

"You want me to work with a group of criminals?"

"I am being honest with you," Roger leaned into the table as the waiter came back and stared at Ariadne as he left the coffee and wandered off again, "You wouldn't have to be involved as anything more than a level designer. You would be paid for your services before the job happened, regardless of its outcome and we could guarantee your anonymity."

"I'm not so sure that I am comfortable with not knowing what my work will be used for," Ariadne still wanted to know more about this man, his group and what he knew about Cobb and the rest.

"So what happened with Arthur?" The question came out of nowhere and threw Ariadne off balance for a moment, she tried to recover quickly but surely Roger had seen the emotion in her eyes of remembering those few weeks of romance.

"W-what do you mean?" After the inception, Ariadne had stayed with Arthur and enjoyed time as a flirtatious couple. Nothing too serious, a little fun between two like minded individuals or so she had thought.

"Rumours spread. Gossip seeps through the cracks of intelligence gathering. You think Cobal doesn't keep an eye on Arthur?" Fear gripped Ariadne for the first time, does this man work for Cobal?

"You work for Cobal Engineering?" she wanted to leave, to run away but if he was who she now suspected him to be it wouldn't make any difference.

"I have in the past," Roger was becoming more and more serious in his manner and choice of words, "But not for some time if that will ease your fears. I just heard in passing that Arthur had taken residence with your lovely self for a short amount of time and now I have to find you here in Paris, back at school instead of with him."

"One person always wants something more than the other," Ariadne said quietly and wondered why she found it so easy to explain these things to a complete stranger who obviously wasn't telling her everything himself. His reaction to her words was to reach into his jacket which hung on the seat and retrieve his wallet. He placed a few bills on the table and rose without so much as making eye contact. She was confused, "Where are you going?"

"I have all that I came for," was all Roger said before hooking his jacket over one shoulder on a finger and wandering away from the café, ignoring her protests and demands for an explanation. He didn't even look back as he went around the nearest corner and out of her sights. Ariadne was left hopelessly lost and alone, clutching at her totem and for once, wishing that this was all a dream. Wish that this was something that didn't need to be explained, but it did. Eames was her best bet but the person with the answers that she least wanted to hear, the truth of these men who had found her so easily.

Meeting up again with Arthur on the other hand, would be both a necessity and a mistake.

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><p><strong>AN: Another dialogue heavy scene. But I found it interesting writing from the POV of a character who doesn't know another's intentions though the reader does. I try hard to suggest things rather than spell them out but I worry that I may rushed the ending of this chapter simply because I wanted to get it done before bed. Enjoy.**


	6. Chapter 6

"H-hello?" a weary male voice on the end of the line.

"It's me."

"John? It's... three in the morning." A woman's voice murmured something in the background.

"On a payphone. Star sixty-nine and call me back."

"Joh-" He hung up and waited on the early morning, New York City street for the phone to ring. Martin and Roger were with him, smoking and scratching their beard respectively. The air was still warm and even in the dead of night traffic eased its way through the network of roads. The ground was wet but the rain had long stopped, cars hissed passed them and their wheels brought up trails of spray. The three of them turned as the phone's shrill ring cut through all other noise and John picked up.

"We need to talk, you said any time and-"

"Please John can't this wait until-"

"Twenty four hour diner, corner of thirty-fourth and eighth. I even sent you round a cab. Should be there," he checked his watch, "In ten minutes. Don't keep him waiting." He hung up once more, feeling more and more like the sort of man he never wanted to be. The phone call was a veiled threat as much as it was communication, telling the contact between themselves and their employer that they knew where he lived. Dan Kibble was his name, a friendly guy with a good work ethic in the wrong line of work. None of three men knew who he worked for (and ultimately who they worked for), he was just the man with the envelopes, the liaison who they were to phone with any questions. And a question they had. Things had become complex and "Target: Arthur, Information: Cobb's location" was no longer going to cut it as an outlay of what needed to be done.

They were two blocks from the diner, Martin waved to a young woman too scantily clad for the weather across the street and she gave him the finger. "Stop antagonising the prostitutes," said Roger frankly and they both shared a little laugh.

"Don't go wasting your money either," John made them both turn, "It's your turn to buy the coffee."

The diner was full of the usual late-night crowd. Drunks, insomniacs and a few off-duty cops. The neon lights shone from the car license plates that littered the walls. The officers gave the men a once over as they entered before returning to their coffee and tales of exaggerated daring-do. A middle-aged waitress with crooked teeth and wire brush hair approached them and spoke with a voice smooth as sandpaper, "Table for three?"

"Four," Martin produced his best smile and adjusted his tie, "He's just on his way." Her false smile suggested 'four' would have sufficed and she led them to their booth with all the exuberance of a person who constantly dealt with the shit that came from working night shift.

"Four coffees and two plates of pancakes," Roger ordered after they sat and added once the waitress had shuffled away, "I like her."

Martin flicked through the mini-jukebox, "You never order pancakes when you're picking picking up the bill."

"Neither do you when I pay," Roger straightened the cutlery weighing down his napkin, "More fool you." John ignored their bickering and stared off out of the nearest window at sprays of water turned to blood by cars' tail-lights. Time was what he needed from Dan, the time to do this properly and with the best result for all concerned. Whoever it was that wanted to know where Cobb was had waited a long time to know already, what was a few more weeks? Maybe they were everything but if they went after Arthur now, without the proper preparation, it could all be for nothing.

"Rain's back on," John said eventually but neither of the pair heard him, the waitress returned with four mugs, a pot of fresh coffee and a fake smile. She poured all four and left them without a word. The noise of the rain and vehicles moving through it rose and fell as Dan Kibble entered in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, his hair and shoulders damp from precipitation.

"Christ," Martin motioned over to the new arrival, "Look at Mr. Inconspicuous over there." All three stared at the short, lean contact as the waitress walked over him, pointed toward them and left a trail of wet footprints on the chessboard linoleum floor. Roger scooted over and Dan fell into the booth beside him.

"You guys are always drinking coffee, don't you ever sleep?" Three sets of eyes stared at him until he apologised for the joke.

"How do you know for sure that you aren't already?" Martin stared at him utterly dead-pan calm.

John lifted a hand, "Don't scare the kid, we need him on side."

"It's okay John, I can handle this," Dan met Martin's steely gaze across the table, "I know I'm not dreaming because you three are still alive. And if by chance this were all happening up here-" he tapped his temple with one finger, "-then that waitress over there would already have given you a Mozambique Drill." He couldn't have been older than a quarter century but age meant so very little when you spent so many sleeping hours getting (at least) twelve times as much work done. His short blonde hair was a mess from the rain and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark rings from being so rudely awoken. John knew that trying to extract from him by dream-sharing would be useless, the things that Dan knew (of both extractors and their employers) were too important not to give him a militarised subconscious. Hell, he probably doesn't even need a totem. John would have had to drop Dan into an actual war-zone to convince him that he was dreaming.

"So I have a wife and an earful waiting for me back home," Dan pinched the bridge of his nose, "What do you need?"

"Time," John put it the simplest way he knew how, "This thing with Arthur just cannot be rushed."

"It is clearly stipulated in the brief that-"

"Fuck the brief!" Martin broke in with his fist hitting the table. This brought the attention of the cops at the coffee bar and John had to mouth the word 'sorry' to appease them. His voice was brought back down to a near whisper as he repeated himself, "Fuck the brief. This job has legs and if it goes wrong then Arthur _and _Cobb won't be happy with just _our _heads."

Roger nodded sagely and John explained further, "We have our plan and we have our levels, but we need more time tweak everything to perfection. The original time frame given to us was simply not enough but something tells me whoever it is won't mind a few more weeks."

Dan drummed his fingers on the table, "The delivery date is negotiable but the fee however, is not."

Roger allowed himself a little chuckle at this, "I wouldn't expect anything else."

"So what is your plan?" Dan said, cheerfully changing tact, "I have a... professional interest."

"Who knows who else you are whispering with long into these warm, wet nights," John smiled and turned his mug slowly buy its handle, "But if it all goes right? Maybe I'll tell you some day."

"Okay," Dan thought about things for a long moment, "Take as much time as you need and I will smooth things over with the client. You haven't gone wrong with their work so far, except for that forger ending up behind bars.

"A regrettable but necessary sacrifice," Roger said whilst weighing John's reaction to his overly-serious tone. Don placed both palms flat on the table and pushed himself out of the booth.

"John. One more thing," Dan placed one hand on his shoulder, "Never, ever threaten myself or my family like that again. We've known each other far too long for that sort of thing." Old beyond his years and perfectly capable of making his own subtle threats. "Roger, always a pleasure and Martin..." he simply shrugged and was flipped a bird in return. He left as quickly as he entered and John saw his out-stretched arm hail a fresh cab.

John turned his attentions to Martin, "The hell was that? The closest thing we have to a friend in this industry and you do nothing but antagonise him?"

"It's not my fault nobody else will hire you," Martin shot back.

"You want to go? Then walk!" his usual demeanour slipped, "Muscle heads like you are ten a penny." This was a lie, John worked with because there _wasn't _muscle like him. Much more than just some blockhead with a gun, Martin could dream with the best of them and had an uncanny ability to seemingly learn mazes with little more than a quick look - years of staring as military and civilian building blueprints could only have helped. His temper was unpredictable however and time had been wasted on prior jobs by him getting impatient and firing on armed projections first. This was another one of their regular arguments.

So regular that Roger was simply able to ignore them and usually able to get them back on track, "Ariadne is a quite vain young woman and seems a little obsessed with her accomplishment. Singular."

Martin was in no mood for riddles, "What did you find?"

"After our lovely little chat, I paid a visit to her apartment. Tossed the place and discovered her plans for the Fischer job, originals or copies, doesn't matter. Took pictures, put them back where I found them but left the rest of the place in a bit of a state." Their argument quickly behind, John and Martin both broke into wide grins.

"Roger," John was tickled, "If you had told me that sooner I would have had to lie to Dan just now about having an actual plan."

"You sure you put the plans back _exactly_ as you found them?" Martin punctuated his sentence with his finger prodding down in the table and clinked the mugs on their saucers, "_Exactly. _Because this could make or break the whole job."

"Gentlemen," Roger raised up his palms to calm them down, "I know how to make it look like I didn't find what I was looking for, thank you very much. Even kicked the door in, she'll see the whole thing as an exercise to terrorise her."

"It's still a long shot," John returned to his level-headed self, "We don't even know that he dreams about the job at all, using the plans might have the exact opposite than we are hoping for." But it was the best idea they had for the first level, when they would chase Arthur into a corner before taking him deeper still. The projections shouldn't give them any bother so long as he believes it his dream (or whomever's dream that certain level had belonged to) then they would as though they were Robert Fischer's subconscious. "And if I close my eyes and just taste it," John mumbled to himself, repeated his words to Eames, "I'm there again." The other two had long learned not to bother asking about things John said to himself as he would never repeat them and clam up 'tighter than a duck's ass' as Martin had once put it.

Roger clapped his hands, "So what now?"

"First," Martin cut in, "You are going to eat those goddamn pancakes you were so quick to order."

He yielded and pulled them over, "And then?"

"We have a look at those plans," John said out loud and looked out the window. A man passed by and glanced into the diner for a moment. John couldn't make out his face from their reflection - enhanced by the relative brightness indoors - but he could have sworn... _Nathan? Impossible_. He watched the man round the corner the entrance was on and peer in the door. It wasn't Nathan at all, how could it have been? He was safely locked away because of John. _No it was his own fault. _But this time he didn't even believe himself.

John reached into his jacket's inner pocket and produced his lighter. Shielding it from view (none of them ever took it personally that they still kept the totems secret), he slid the zinc body from the chrome sleeve and read the inscription. The last thing anyone would think of when trying to create a forgery, 'You Are Dreaming' and only then did he know for sure that he wasn't.

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><p><strong>AN: Another one churned out. Hope whoever is reading is actually enjoying.**


	7. Chapter 7

Eames twisted the heel of his leather shoe on the butt of a finished cigarette, checked the address he has scrawled on the back of a till receipt and knocked on the heavy metal door. They alley was filthy, ignored, the buildings claustrophobic and tall. Though a blue sky glowed far above, none of the sun's rays seemed to make it down to his level. There was the echoed bark of a stray dog and a far-off siren seemed to wail from three places at once. No answer. He was about to knock again when the door clacked twice from the inside before being heaved away from him. A heavy-set bald man eyed him warily from within a leather bomber jacket. Inside were the florescent beginnings of a staircase leading deeper.

"Mot de passe?" his voice was as rough and unwelcoming as his appearance, never had Eames heard such a bastardisation of the French tongue.

"Je cherche un ami," though rusty, his own grasp on the language still worked.

"Nom?"

"Ariadne," he said.

"Non, votre nom," the doorman was in no mood for games, "Connard."

"Eames." At this, the fat man reached to one side of the door and produced a clipboard and Eames watched a fat finger run down a list. Presumably his name was then scored from it.

"Vient de vous? Où est...-" checked the list once more, "-Arthur?"

"Il sera ainsi plus tard," Eames wasn't sure if she had called him too but certainly had prepared himself for such an eventuality. The man then stood to one side to allow entry. The bright, reflected sounds of the outdoors were sealed away as the heavy door slammed shut behind him and were replaced with incessant hum, occasional buzz of strip-lights. One hand on a wall, he went down the steep staircase - his heels clicked on each step - and had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting his head at the bottom. He came to a long corridor, red paint cracked and flaked from the walls and low ceiling. To his left was a booth built into the wall with plexi-glass.

Within was an old man with more fingers than teeth and even fewer hairs on his head. Tinny accordion music floated out from a personal radio inside with the man. As Eames approached he was greeted with a smile almost entirely made up of gums and a voice that cracked and warbled in a most inviting manner, "Combien d'heures désirez-vous?"

He replied with her name once more, "Ariadne?" Noting to himself how strange it was that she had become so well known in such... squalid surroundings. Anybody would think she had performed the whole Fischer job on her own.

"Un moment," the man fumbled with the reading glasses around his drooping neck, "Numéro sept chambre."

"Merci." Eames walked, hands in pockets, down the corridor taking note of the door numbers. Judging by the set-up he imagined the establishment was once a brothel (perhaps to some it still was) but at some point allowing people to dream-share became more lucrative. Room number seven was missing its number but it had fallen off since the last coat of paint and an outline yet remained. He delicately turned the handle and pushed open the door. The gaudy paint-job inside remained as did the long-rusted bed frame from the room's unsavoury past. It had been more recently furnished with a latticed patio table and three matching chairs, probably cast-offs from one of the cafés outside and up in the sunlight. Eames had seen worse set-ups than these, far worse in the slums of Mombasa and other cities, but he couldn't help feeling that Ariadne could have done a lot better.

She sat limp in one of the chairs, head lolled back to one side. She hadn't changed much, Eames noticed, still dressing like a student and wearing the minimum amount of make-up possible. She did have something to her, a quality that drew the eye and left an admirer perplexed as to exactly what it was. But whatever the quality was it didn't appear to Eames then, perhaps she needed to be awake - some quirk in the way she smiled or spoke or moved.

The PASIV machine was quietly working its magic from the table, Eames took himself one of the spare drips and dropped into a spare chair. A slight sting in his wrist as the needled entered and...

A world of white and glass, sweeping walls and eye-catching use of space. Eames tread softly on a floor of light grey with the texture of carpet toward the focal point of what was revealing itself to be a small, modern home. The living area was open, angled and multi-levelled, complete with a white leather suite. The seating was separated from the simplified kitchen only by being on a slightly lower section of floor. One entire wall was glass and Eames found Ariadne looking out down a green hill across a forest that faded into a far-off bank of fog.

"Nice place you have here," he startled her but she waited before turning, played it cool as he added, "Is this for school or for fun?"

She smiled at him out of courtesy, "Fun but maybe one day..." Her voice trailed off with longing. Every architect had that dream project that they kept just for themselves in the hope that one day they could make it a reality, but until then they would simply allow aspects of it to leak and run into their other work. What Eames hadn't expected was that Ariadne's dream project would be an actual _home_ and the number of bedrooms suggested things that he knew it would not be prudent to question.

Instead he played to his type and playfully picked holes, "You know this wall would never work? You couldn't have it glass all the way along like this."

"It works fine here," she looked back out over the green, "That's enough for now." Eames had himself a small chuckle at this but she noticed nonetheless, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he walked over so that he was next to her, "Now what has you phoning me in a bloody panic and having me meet you in the arse-crack of Paris?" At first he thought it was just something she didn't want to talk about on the phone but now he knew it was something she didn't feel comfortable saying anywhere but inside her own mind. Yet, he already had more than a good guess at what it would be concerning.

"I think somebody is using me to get to Cobb. My apartment was trashed but nothing taken and a man came to the school asking me questions."

"Oh?" he feigned ignorance, "But you're okay? You haven't been threatened?"

She was angry at his blasé response, "Somebody finds me, asks about Cobb, then presumably goes to my home and wrecks the place! Does that not count as being threatened?" The room, the world darkened ever so slightly with her mood. The white walls turned every so slightly grey and floor darker still.

"Of course, of course," he was on the defensive, "Forgive my lack of tact, I am still groggy from the flight."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed in accusation, "Do you know anything about this?"

Eames chose his words carefully although he knew the reaction would be the same regardless, "Had I thought you were in any danger whatsoever, I would have warned you."

"You- you knew!" she was livid, her hands curled into fists as she ranted and raved at him, "I have been living out of a hotel for the past two nights! Afraid to sleep in my own home! And you knew they would be coming?"

"Hold on just a damn second!" he shouted back, "This had nothing to do with you. I was approached by an old associate with a job offer that I declined. I didn't realise I had to call you with every little thing!"

"If it involves them looking for Cobb, you didn't think it might concern the whole team!" her voiced cracked and Eames saw some thought, some hidden thought that clicked in the mind.

He returned to his usual, calm exterior, "And I suppose the whole team is coming? Hmm? Yusuf? Saito? Or did you just call Arthur?"

"I called you too," she wiped her eyes with a sleeve.

"Why though? I was never a part of your little triangle," he let the word hang there, noted her reaction to it, "Arthur will come riding in here on a stallion to rescue you no doubt."

"The gentleman, Roger, mentioned you by name. Said you worked with a man he does now," Ariadne explained, "Otherwise I could have easily done without seeing you again."

"Ah but of course," Eames had come this far, why stop now, "I suppose you didn't see me as something that needed fixed like Arthur or Dom. Girls and their... projects." She looked hurt at this, but he continued to goad her. "She saved Dominic Cobb from his own guilt and then went on to melt the icy heart of his calculating point man. Bravo!"

Since the gloves were obviously off, she pulled no punches in return, "I was just lucky enough not to be selling my affections otherwise you might have been on me in a second." His face changed in an instant from schoolyard-bully smirk to the sort of look that came alongside a loaded weapon. "But then a lot of military men find it hard to form lasting relationships, I hear."

"Says the girl who moved in with a bloke and three weeks later, gives up on him and mysteriously runs back to Paris leaving him in the lurch with no explanation."

"That isn't-" she stopped.

"Yes well, we can both talk crap about things that simply aren't our business," Eames calmed himself once more and rubbed his weary eyes, he found the girl's endless arrogance utterly infuriating. It hadn't shown itself much during her now infamous first job, but her quickness in grabbing hold of dream-sharing and the improvisations later quickly began to grate. She was good and she knew it. _Artists are all the same_, he thought to himself, _standing on the shoulders of giants and claiming themselves peers. _Dom and Mal had been similar on occasion, impetuous and condescending. Though their manner and humour outside of work more than made up for those niggling short-comings. But then they had all been old beyond their years because of the time spent other (and others deeper still). Your body might have gotten cards every year, but your mind quickly lost count.

Ariadne on the other hand had the misfortune (as far as Eames was concerned) of being so exceedingly gifted at a young age. The naivety and holier-than-thou attitude meant that he had on several occasions simply switched off when she talked. There was a long silence, uncomfortable and with little - if any - eye contact. Eames eventually said the two little words that tied all of the threads together, "Arthur knows." But he found her still slow on the uptake and shrugged at him, "Where Cobb ran off to. Christ, woman. For an intelligent young lady you have little common sense."

"Eames," she was calm once more, mocking, "Would you please stop talking?" And he did, to hold the peace or so he told himself. "Are they scaring me to get a message to Arthur?"

"I doubt it," Eames dawdled over to the white leather sofa and lost himself on it, "Castlebeck doesn't play that way, not unless all other options are exhausted."

"Yeah, why bother terrorising me when they could just go straight after him?" Ariadne pondered.

"He wouldn't send somebody to your place without reason," Eames pulled at a loose thread on his trousers, "With him all the pieces fit. Was there anything missing?"

She shook her head, "Not that Is saw, nothing important. I left the place after the locksmith had finished replacing the lock. Honestly now, personal differences aside, why didn't you warn me?" This took him back, the childish girl he so disliked was gone for a moment and replaced with a grown up asking him a straight question which he saw as deserving of a straight answer.

He looked her dead in the eye as he answered, lazily sprawled on the cushions, "Castlebeck- or John as he calls himself came to me, told me he was after Cobb and that Arthur was his to get to him. He offered me a job knowing I wouldn't have the slightest interest in accepting. Why?

Her eyebrows raised as she pieced it together, "Because he knew you would warn him."

"Thought I would," Eames pedantically corrected her, "Which I figured was a very good reason not to do so."

"Was scaring me a back-up then? To double the chances of Arthur knowing they're after him?"

"That seems to be our best bet ."

Ariadne came over and sat across from Eames on another sofa, "So the question is why do they want him to know?"

Eames scratched at the beginnings of a beard, "No I think the real question is do we tell Arthur about all this?"

A third voice shocked them into sudden silence, "Do you tell me all about what, exactly?"

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><p><strong>AN: I try not to write cliffhangers, but occasionally the situation does call for them. As for my take on Ariadne and Eames' relationship, just because you work with somebody doesn't mean you have to like them.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Quick thank you to the latest subscriber and the lovely reader who added this story to their favourites. We're getting there now, moving ever closer to the showdown and getting ever more complicated along the way.**

**Disclaimer: Any story I write is a breach of copyright, this is just a fact. If I were to admit that I do not own _Inception_ then I would be doing nothing but admitting that I know that I am breaching copyright. Therefore, it is better not to disclaim anything at all. Good thing Nolan (nor indeed most media artists) doesn't care how many stories people write based on their work.**

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><p>Eames awoke with a long gasp and clutched desperately at his chest with both hands. "Little bastard," he muttered and removed the IV from his wrist. The bullets hadn't killed him as quickly as he might have hoped, Arthur's aim had been off and the double tap to the sternum had missed the heart with both rounds. Pain is all in the mind and a ruptured chest, severed artery or punctured lung are things you can survive for a few agonising seconds. Eames wondered if that was Arthur's intention in the first place. He had died before obviously, long and horrible deaths that he shuddered to think of or those so fast he never quite knew if they had occurred at all. He had been killed by colleagues before, one or two friends even, though they had always been out of mercy and to end further suffering. Never had a cohort caused him so much pain, excruciating pain, let alone on purpose. It was safe to say that Arthur hadn't taken the news of Eames' deception very well at all.<p>

He decided to give the two ex-lovebirds a chance to talk, to catch up, and stood himself up out of the chair. Looking at them, he saw no indication of the mood of their conversation down in the dream. Eames wondered how long Arthur had spent watching her sleep before he decided to come under and see them in her dream. Helpless the both of them, so trusting of him and everyone else in these decrepit, rusty-bedframe surroundings. For a moment he thought about if he had accepted Castlebeck's offer, how would the current situation be different? He could reach into their pockets and take their totems right now, but he had declined the offer and these two were the people closest to friends that he had. Guilt crept up his spine at the notion. _It was just a thought, nothing wrong with a thought._

What had she done to Arthur to make him so obedient? Flew all the way from Chicago on the back of a single phone call. Would Cobb have come had she been able to call him too? _Why am I here? _he thought and looked at her, _Guilt? Because I brought this on her? Or am I just curious? _It occurred to him that he just wanted to see all of what was going on, as the one person with a link to both sides of the situation. As the answer that least called into question his personal feelings, Eames went with it for now. But in this case not playing wasn't the same as not taking sides.

He sat back down for a minute and thought about his part in all this, worried he was just being played and gently nudged into decisions he pretended were his own. Was everything going to Castlebeck's plan? What were they going to do to Arthur? He wished there was some way to beat them to the punch, some facet of the situation his old friend hadn't thought of. But what? This was doing him no good - too many questions and no answers - and besides, they'd had enough alone time.

The two of them were staring out of the long window over the greenery without a word, mist flowing amongst the trees like gun smoke, when Eames found himself back in Ariadne's dream. The place had returned, presumably along with her mood, back to serene brightness. Arthur's tailored suit jacket rested on the back of one of the couches and his hands were in his pockets. _To stop him from reaching for hers, _Eames smiled to himself, _A grown man reduced to a nervous teenager_. They hadn't noticed his arrival and he saw how loose Ariadne stood compared to Arthur. Her hips cocked lazily to one side and his legs rigid as a board. "Your aim hasn't improved, it would seem."

"It got the job done," Arthur spoke without turning, "Apologies if I caused you any undue- discomfort. We needed to talk."

"But of course," Eames scratched instinctively at where the bullets had entered, swore he could feel an echo of the shock, "I suppose you want an explanation."

"I have been told most of it already," Arthur turned to look at him with a false smile on his lips, Ariadne must have told him to play nice, "I just need to know what they plan to do with me." Without Cobb the group was so easily split by personal grievances. What was there for Eames in this, in helping Arthur? No money, not even the honourable act of helping a man get back to his kids. He could (should?) just wash his hands of this and leave them to it. But he didn't and against his instincts, his better judgement, he offered advice.

"Arthur, when they come for you- and they will," Eames felt as though he were being honest for the first time in his life, his hands were clammy and he couldn't keep them still, "Just tell them where Cobb is."

"I can't do that," came the solemn reply, "He contacted me only once after the Fischer job - and only me - to tell where he was going. He trusted me alone with the information and I'm not giving it up." Selfish, that was Cobb all over in leaving Arthur with the sort of information that people would kill to attain. Arthur risked Ariadne's scorn as he added, "Unless you have something useful to tell me, it's probably best for everyone that you just disappear again."

"Arthur please," one last shot before he gives up on the sanctimonious point man, "I know the sort who are after you. They are as job-orientated and stubborn as you. If you push them..." Eames looked at Ariadne.

She had been quiet so far, perhaps trying to get a grip of whether or not Arthur had changed at all, "You think they'll use me to get to him again?" Arthur looked down to his polished shoes, knowing what Eames had suggested.

"They already have," his hands emerged from his pockets and fiddled his fingers in front of him, "And here I am straight to the rescue as was their intention." Eames could the slow realisation in the poor man's voice, that his usual level-headed, controlled responses had been tossed to one side in favour of some alpha-male heroics. The realisation too that this whole thing could have been a trap itself and he would have blindly stepped into it. _Noble, _thought Eames, _utterly stupid and reckless, but noble nonetheless. Bloody fool._ Arthur didn't look at her. Couldn't? Instead he turned to Eames, who saw the return of the usual calculating eyes and determined posture.

"What do I need to do?"

It would have been too easy to make some quip about him asking Eames for help and it was hardly the time, "Wait for them to come to you and then improvise."

"I don't like it," Arthur's instinct to be on top of the situation must have been screaming at this advice, "Is there nothing I can do?"

"We don't know what their plan," Eames sighed, "All he said to me is that he would offer a dream you would _want_ to be real." Ariadne reacted to this ever so slightly and tried to hide it from Eames by turning to look out the window again.

"What can you tell me about them? Ari mentioned they're ex-military."

"They are, yes. I only worked with Castlebeck personally but I know of the other two. US special forces recruited for early dream-share experiments," Eames stared through Arthur as he spoke, as though the ghosts of the past were behind him.

"Just like you," Ariadne couldn't help herself it seemed.

"Yes," Eames openly admitted, "I was picked out of the SAS for the same work, I passed the rigorous psychological tests. Me! Passing a shrink! Anyway, this was somewhat after the Americans, but once word got out every government wanted eyes and ears on the research. We were all guinea pigs having the time of our lives and killing each other without any... immediate consequences." Upon realising he had drifted too far down memory lane, Eames added, "My point is they will have no qualms with killing you if pushed into a corner. But at the same time, they are professional and will want the job done with as little mess as possible."

"They will need me alive," Arthur thought out loud, "They need me to tell them. Torture?"

Eames smiled, "I'm going to be straight with you here, mate. I'm not so much worried about the lengths they will go to as the lengths you'll push them to in order to keep Cobb's secret."

"I owe it to him."

"Do you though?" Eames had been waiting for Arthur to play that card and the retort came fast, "What exactly do you owe somebody who disappears on with scarcely an explanation?" A thinly veiled attack on Ariadne as well as Cobb and if Arthur picked up on it then he didn't let it show. He couldn't answer the question either, just stood in sullen silence.

He eventually tried to change the subject, "Why are you even here Eames? To gloat perhaps? Are you going to help me when they come?"

"No," the flatness of the response surprised even himself, "I have no investment in this on either side. Castlebeck approached me, I declined and now I have done the same with you." Though he knew this wasn't entirely true, he did have some affection for Arthur and even for the manipulative, arrogant girl he clung to. Had it been anybody else they were up against then Eames would have helped them, but he owed Castlebeck and in declining to help Arthur he now considered the debt to be paid in full. Whether his old friend saw it that way he would have to wait and see.

"So leave," Arthur said plainly, "And I'll figure this without you."

"One last favour," Eames smirked, "In the bloody head this time." Arthur obliged him and he awoke once again in a cold, grasping sweat, certain still that he could remember some slight pain from the bullet's entry. He sat in the chair for a short while and scratched at his chin absent-mindedly. What now? He should have left right then and there, forgotten about the whole affair and got on with his life free of Cobb and the webs he left behind in his wake. It was obvious now that Ariadne was the key and Castlebeck would be using her as the mental bait for the information he wanted. But how? And why didn't he tell Arthur of his suspicions?

_Because you don't owe them anything, _he told himself, _None of this is worth taking sides. _And at that moment Eames was struck by a wonderful notion, that perhaps there was room in this for a third, independent party. He hadn't agreed to work on the Fischer job out of respect for Cobb or to help him get back to his kids but purely for curiosity's sake. And this instance would be no different, helping neither Arthur or Castlebeck but with an itching desire to see how the conflict between them would play out. In the end though he thought it best that one way or another, Cobb's location was revealed to all. If only to lift the shadow he left over each and every one of their lives.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimers undermine already shaky legal ground.**

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><p>Roger let out a low whistle at their surroundings, "This is a nice hotel, I feel under-dressed." Sheer glass walls that gave way to polished marble floors and steps. The inner walls were panelled in a brilliant white which created such a wonderful, open and bright space for a hotel lobby. The place was empty, silent as a morgue apart from their voices which echoed off the far walls and high ceilings.<p>

"How much is there?" John turned to Martin who was re-creating the plans they had retrieved from Ariadne's apartment from memory.

"There's the lobby, the bar, the whole ground floor and elevators connect to two floors above. Certainly not enough to make a whole structure," Martin then added with a low throaty laugh, "Lord knows what this looks like from the outside."

"Architects," John muttered, "Drawing their pretty pictures and letting others worry about the technicalities."

The smoker's laugh again, "Like making sure it can stand up?" They clicked down the polished stone steps toward the unmanned concierge desk then right, in direction of the bar and tried to get a grip of how the place fitted together. John noticed so many inconsistencies in the structure; irregular column spacings, mismatched walls, trusses and beams that didn't continue between spaces. And yet each space _worked,_ that was undeniable and each room felt perfectly real. From a dream-share perspective the plans were exemplary but in the real world any engineer worth his salt would have seen the plans, laughed and told the architect to start over. When under, those things that architects considered to be unnecessary constraints placed on them by structural engineers; material strength, element orientation, stresses, strains and even _gravity_ could be gleefully ignored in favour of their artistic vision.

He couldn't help but wonder - as he noticed more and more niggling 'errors' - if the ever increasing prevalence of dream-sharing was harbouring and nurturing a generation of architects with even less grasp of how buildings worked in the real world. Naturally, this was totally beside the point and he ignored himself to get back to the job at hand, "So what do you think happens here? As regards to their job."

Roger sucked air through his teeth, "We just don't know. Best guess? They meet up with Fischer down here and take him up to one of the rooms. Maybe there are some personal safes up there?" The question was aimed at Martin, who was so busy admiring his own work that he needed a quick shove to the shoulder to get an answer.

He shook his head, "Not a single safe, lockbox or vault anywhere in the place. You forget that they weren't performing extraction, though I reckon you're right about the rest. There would just be too many projections down here. Speaking of which..." He looked at John as they entered the bar, an interior designer's dream. Cubist lights hung low from the ceiling and quaint, simple furniture quietly filled the floor. The bar itself was jet black and thick, something once volcanic but now polished to a gleam. Behind it was the usual mix of ever-waiting, empty glasses and bottles of expensive liquor.

"Any of projections of Arthur's shouldn't behave like his own," John looked around the ceiling, unable to help himself noticing, "But instead like Fischer's."

"So long as Arthur believes it is his dream of past events," Roger added, "As soon as we reveal ourselves to him, things will get ugly." They made their over to the long, meticulously clean bear, pulled up a steel-legged stool each and watched the stillness of the room out and away from the unmanned station.

Martin continued the thought process, "Which is why we wait until he, they or whoever take Fischer presumably upstairs. Confront Arthur with as few projections around as possible."

"Scared yet John?" Roger's light-hearted mocking, "So many unknowns, so many things out of our control. So much faith in others."

"It's a gamble," careful word choice in the response, "We should focus on what we do have control over instead. Any opportunity for close loops?"

Martin had thought ahead, the answer ready, "Elevators are the only means between floors, the stairs are all paradoxes. Lazy bitch." The other two looked over at him, shocked by the sudden slur. "What? It is lazy." He laughed in a manner that left John nervous and uneasy. If he had a wife and family, they would never have been allowed to meet Martin.

"So we follow him up, assuming he even goes up, assuming he is even in this level and assuming he even falls for Martin's dream?" Roger laid it all out, "Then we stall the elevators? Trapping us in a confined space with one of the best point men in the industry?"

John only decreased the odds as he continued, "Then we have to chase him, make sure he doesn't kill himself and put him down deeper. Simple."

"All good plans work in theory and go to shit at the first complication," Martin pushed off his stool and walked amongst the tables, "What if he knows straight away and just wakes himself up? That's the major hurdle."

"Then we have to get nasty," John said tentatively and noticed a line of six upturned whisky glasses on the bar in his peripheral vision, "Follow him back up and get the information the old-fashioned way." He moved one out of place delicately and looked to Martin, "You still remember the old days of extraction?"

"I can still tie a guy to a chair," Martin said gravely, "If that's what you're getting at." It was. John looked at the glasses once more to find that they had been corrected back into their original line. _Good man, _he thought, _the devil is always in the details._ Torture was not something they wanted to resort to, which was not to say that they didn't have the stomach for it. It simply made for complications further down the road. The bank job to retrieve Ruebens' totem had been a last resort, attracting unwanted interest from the authorities. Beating Arthur to a bloody pulp would result in similar issues, not to mention the desire of retribution from the mark himself. Better to get Cobb's location out of him willingly or better yet, subconsciously.

All this talk of how it could go wrong made John nervous, but it was a conversation they needed to have. Once over the first hurdle of Arthur accepting the dream as his own they would follow him and play it by ear. If they got lucky he would go down another level and he could be far more easily taken into the own next level of dream for him. That was best case. Harder would be chasing and catching him without allowing the opportunity for suicide. Unless... "Let's go upstairs," John said abruptly.

The elevator was almost as richly upholstered as the rest but presented them with a new issue voiced by Roger at the dreamer, "Which floors are on the plans?"

"That's the thing," came the exasperated reply, "The two planned floors aren't numbered but instead labelled 'n' and 'n' minus one."

"A number from Fischer's subconscious?" John tried to think this through, "And a floor underneath that?"

"The floors aren't even _there _until you use the elevator," even Martin had to smile at this, "Credit where it's due, she's a smart lazy bitch."

"One of us is going to have to have an eye on the elevator in the lobby then," Roger pressed a switch for the eighth level, "See where they go."

John shared his little idea at this point, "We have to be the projections-" and clarified, "-the militarised ones, hotel security."

"Won't work," Martin looked around the elevator, crows feet deepening in the corners of his eyes as he checked he had created everything properly, "Don't know what Fischer's projections would wear, we'll stick out and clue Arthur onto what is happening."

"Unless," John interjected.

"Unless we're the first that he sees," Roger finished the idea, "Then he'll project the rest to look like us."

"Risky," Martin gave a little laugh as the doors opened, "Fits right in with the rest." The corridor was far more homely and warm than the clinical lobby downstairs. Far softer, golden colours were on the walls and the soft lighting added to the serenity of the floor. As they walked, John noticed that all the floors were numbered with a single seven, something else for Fischer - through Arthur - to fill in later. They stopped walking halfway down and continued discussing the particulars.

"Hold on, hold on," Martin sounded like he was getting a monkey off his back, a doubt that had gone unspoken for some time, "We don't just lock ourselves up here with Arthur but maybe the whole team. Will his projections of Eames and Cobb be as-" he searched for the word with a twist of his wrist, "-effective as their real life counterparts?"

Roger simply shrugged, "We're all in unknown territory here. But at a guess I'd say they'll be as least as much of a problem as an armed subconscious. It will depend how well he knows them and what he thinks of them."

John went over to one of the rooms and peered inside, minimally furnished. "What's your best refresh times?" he called out into the hall. The question reminded him of happier times back in the day. When they would, as dreamers, kill each other with reckless abandon knowing that they would be back for another go at you in a half hour or so. Getting yourself back in the dream or 'refreshing' as it became known was not an easy thing at first. Your body was simply to excited - reacting to the stress of thinking you were dead but finding yourself still ticking - to go back under straight away. You had to calm yourself first, get your heart rate back down, your breathing long and easy. Some found this easier than others but the more a man died whist under, the more he got used to it and the quicker his refresh became. Most had their time down to a minute by the end of the experiments.

Roger put in first, "Thirty seconds."

Martin snorted, "Lying bastard. Takes me at least forty."

"I'm a liar because I'm better than you? How mature."

"I'll show you mature," Martin pulled a pistol from under his shoulder and pointed it at Roger's temple, whose reaction was that of complete indifference, "John, get your watch ready."

He pulled up his sleeve, "Are we really doing this?"

A shrug from Roger, "If it'll shut him up."

John watched the second hand jerk its way around the Roman numerals, "Okay then. Let's get it over with." The trigger was pulled, a splatter hit the wall and Roger's body slumped the floor, his eyes stared straight through John and blood trickled through the wire-brush of his beard. Death reduced to a game, a bet between two egos. When killing others and your own death become such a routine they have such little meaning. Dream-sharing removed the brain's baseline, subconscious fear of death. Removed? _No, _thought John, _that is the wrong word. _The fear became subverted and skewed, pushed to one side by strength of will, faith in what was real and what was not. Never a religious man in his life, John couldn't help but liken it to a Christian believing blind in heaven and not fearing the end.

How many men in those early days had sworn blind that the military exercise was real and begged him not to kill them? Only to joke about it and hour later in the mess hall after the debrief. And how many had the opposite issue? Convincing themselves that the exercise hadn't ended or there had been a mistake that had left behind in the dream. The psychologists had warned everyone who signed up about this, that they might lose their grip on what was real. But still, too many young men had killed themselves to wake up from reality and just enough to end the military's involvement in the technology - its official involvement at least.

These were the thoughts in John's mind when Martin showed no reaction to Roger's 'death'. Instead he walked over and said, "Turn around will ya? Can't get rid of the body with you staring at it like some goddamn grieving widow." John did as told and Martin altered the space, no body remained when he turned back. All part of the routine. Was Martin becoming a liability or John? Martin was a wildcard who occasionally needed a short leash, that much was obvious but there were occasions when a blunt instrument like him came in handy for some extra persuasion. But this wasn't what John saw himself doing when he started extracting professionally.

He had set out with the unbreakable rule that people weren't to be hurt in the course of his work, but as early as his second job he came across the exception which quickly became the rule. He dropped his original team and did freelance work as an extractor for hire (several jobs of which he worked with Eames on) before meeting the salt-and-peppered Martin during a four hour wait at LAX. John forever saw this partnership as an admission he wasn't fully suitable for the line of work. Hell, he had scarcely been suitable for a lot of the things asked of him in the armed forces. At the same time he took some solace in the fact that he hadn't turned out like Martin and this gave him a sense of superiority - false or otherwise. It was the unspoken foundation for most of their arguments.

They stood in silence for a handful of minutes until Roger stepped out a room down the hall from them, "Well?"

John checked his watch and allowed a few seconds for his partner to have gotten to the door, "Six minutes and and forty five seconds."

Roger did the math, "Thirty five seconds give or take." He joined the pair with a grin at Martin, who played exactly to type.

"My turn-"

Though John put an end to it, "Enough of the games, christ. Safe to say that if one of us goes down we have anywhere up to ten minutes on our own."

"What about the second level? You finished working on that yet," Roger ignored Martin's childish goading.

John had finished it but still wasn't entirely sure it would even take in Arthur's mind and spent late nights on his own eternally tweaking the creation. He forever told himself there was room for improvement but was fearful that each tiny change would be the one to ruin the whole thing. "Let me worry about that," he said eventually, "Did you see how much time was left up there?"

"We have about ten more minutes down here," Roger itched at his beard, "Are we done? 'Cos I have things to do and no doubt Martin wants out of here before all the good whores are taken for the evening."

"And you have an imaginary family to get back to. At least John here doesn't lie about having a life outside of word the way you do."

John didn't react to this but instead walks off down the corridor away from them and round the corner to hear himself think. But all he could were Eames' words over and over as he had gorged himself on an imaginary breakfast, "...he never did know when to walk away from something".

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><p><strong>AN: Getting there. I do have an ending that I am working toward, promise. I can see my own personal experience with architects coming through in John but feel it adds a new angle on their use in the world of dream-sharing.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I own Inception, I really do. The idea was extracted from me on a trans-continental flight.**

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><p>Dan Kibble was in his bedroom's en suite when the phone rang, face half-white from shaving foam and his voice amplified by the close walls, "Get that will you babe?" He stared at himself in the mirror, listening to the electric chime and wondered if it was worth dropping the razor, grabbing a towel, going for the phone himself. It wasn't. She had come into the bedroom and answered, he caught sight of her in the reflection - using one of his shirts to cover her white underwear - and went back to the long strokes up his neck toward the jawline.<p>

"Hello?... Emily... who am I spea-" a giggle from her, "Why thank you." Dan stopped shaving at this point, curious as to who was pouring honey into his girl's ear. "Are you calling for Dan? Yeah he's in." He returned to shaving, pretended he hadn't been interested as she appeared behind him and held the phone up over his shoulder. "There's a lovely English gentleman calling for you."

"Gimme a sec," Dan took a towel and wiped the foam from half his face to use the phone. She squeezed his butt playfully before leaving the bedroom, business talk always bored her. "Eames."

"How did you know?" He was on a cellphone, the hum of a crowd came down the line behind him.

"Few others would take the time to chat up my girlfriend before asking for me."

"She seems lovely."

"I have no work for a forger right now," Dan cut straight through to what he thought was the issue at hand.

"You think so little of me," Eames must have put his hand over the mouthpiece because the noise was muffled for a moment before he came back with, "I am stuck in the city for the night, how about two chums go for a drink or three?"

Dan was dubious, having not heard from Eames in quite some time. The dream-sharing world could be so incredibly small sometimes and word on the newest hunt for Cobb was already out. "Why do I get the feeling I already know what this is really about?"

"Fine," he sounded hurt in his reply, "I'll drink by myself."

Dan wiped the rest of the foam from his face and apologised, "Sorry, people only ever seem to phone me when they are after something. Where are you?"

"Grand Central, watching the world go by."

Dan walked in from the East 42nd street entrance and plodded down the long slope to the main hall. He stopped and scratched at the back of his blonde head, gazing up at the stars. The noise of people, announcements was all-encompassing and acted like a protective cushion to the world - safety in anonymity. The clock above the central booth read almost five in the afternoon and there was a quiet clatter as the large information boards refreshed themselves. He walked over to the booth, dodging suits and the wheeled luggage that rattled after them.

He became one of a half dozen standing near the clock, a regular and recognisable place for a meeting but Dan saw no sign of Eames. His mind went to dark places instantly; a trap, a chance to loot his apartment, a chance to get to Emily? Oh Jesus. Cold sweat, panic, stupid. _He calls for the first time in years and you just show up regardless? _But as Dan swung his body round, checking for exits he spotted a familiar looking face at the top of the first flight of the western steps. Eames leaned lazily on the wall and watched over the man-made, cavernous space, smiling.

And only when he was sure that Dan had spotted him did he shout, "Dan! Danny boy! Up here!" And pointed down at him and waved his arms. People looked between the two of them, confused and Dan's bubble of comfort disappeared as he felt their eyes on him. It wasn't until he was at the bottom of the steps that Eames went back to being quiet and looked back over the sea of commuters - albeit with a wider grin on his face.

"I imagine you think you are quite the funny man?" Dan reached the top of the steps and joined Eames in the social over-watch.

"You should have seen yourself over at the clock, a complete freak out," Eames laughed, "Still the nervous Nelly I remember." Dan leaned against the wall and kicked one toe against the polished stone floor lightly, compulsively. "What on earth were you suddenly so concerned about? Leave the iron on or the door unlocked?" Dan knew the question was hypothetical, that Eames himself knew exactly what had worried him and he didn't appreciate being toyed like that.

John had done something similar that one week earlier, calling the cab to his home and sending the none too subtle message. And now Eames had worked him into a none too small paranoid frenzy by simply not waving sooner. It wasn't just these two isolated incidents either. It seemed that every time somebody wanted to meet up with Dan, they couldn't do so without suggesting some form or level of control over him first.

_They're afraid of me, _he would tell himself, _Afraid of the things and people I know. _Dan was not, at a glance, a dangerous looking individual but a slight, blonde-haired young man still unable to muster but the smallest of beards. But he more than made up for this by being a very useful individual to people far more dangerous than himself. Yet he still held onto the belief that more dangerous people yet were always out to get him.

Knowledge is a powerful thing, a valuable commodity and Dan could be trusted to keep a secret. He worked for all sides whilst somehow managing to keep himself neutral to their inter-personal strife. Perhaps more sought after than the information locked away in his skull was his flair for complete impartiality. As such, everybody would come wanting something for nothing.

"What do you want?" Dan wearied of the games, he would go along with the pretence of meeting for a drink only so far before cutting through the bullshit.

"I told you," Eames looked over with an honest smile, "A drink with an old friend. Come on, it's just gone five. Let's find a place before it fills to the brim with poly-cotton blends and garish ties." The influx had already begun as they totted down the steps and out to the nearest street exit. Busy people and their busy schedules all bustled and shoved each other. They bellowed into their cellphones and checked watches with expressions of anger, frustration and relief at the end of the working day.

Dan weaved, moved aside and apologised to all those who bumped into him. Eames on the other hand walked straight on with such quiet purpose that people moved aside for - and apologised to - him. "It's all about confidence," he shouted above the din, "You're a powerful player in all this, Dan. More important than six-figure Simon over there." He spoke of a forty-something with slicked dark hair and a loosened tie screaming something into his hands-free kit while walking through a door somebody had held open for themselves. "Between the two of us we could ruin that man's life in less than forty-eight hours. And yet if you found him in bed with Emily you would believe him that it 'is not what it looks like!'"

"A powerful player in a world almost nobody knows about," Dan's down-beat, delayed response as he caught up to Eames on the sidewalk of the heaving Manhattan street. Cabs in gridlock, teeth grinding from drivers and their fares alike.

"Come on," a tug on Dan's arm and they were snaking between the vehicles just as they started moving again. Horns blared and Eames beat a palm on one cab's hood when a sudden lurch threatened to flatten them both. The sidewalks weren't much better than the roads and tempers ran just as high. Dan was almost instantly lost as he was led through throngs of shoppers and commuters, diagonally across intersections to a chorus car horns and eventually found himself in front of a bar.

"I'm buying," Eames pushed him inside by the shoulder. It was as loud in the place as it was out on the street, only darker. Groups of suits discussed the day's business and weekend's exploits before harassing the bar staff. They had to wait ten minutes before two stools became available at the dimly lit bar. Dan felt enclosed and exposed, eyes in every corner seemed to converge on him. A glance seemed like a glare. He noticed that the two men who had vacated the bar stools had only gone as far as the men's room.

"They'll be coming back for these," he said but followed Eames' lead all the same.

"You worry too much," was the discouraging reply, "We'll deal with the two 'yuppies' when they come back. Just don't touch their drinks." Even Dan couldn't help but laugh at the two bottles with beer mats precariously balanced n top. "Must be some jackass code of practice amongst stock-jockeys." Eames shrugged and waited to make eye-contact with the barmaid, a beautiful brunette creature probably only here until her stage work picked up. Dan rolled his eyes and turned to watch the goings on indoors, the burgundy interior contrasted against shirts, ties and socks. And teeth, bright flashes from whole groups at the drop of an unheard punchline. The barmaid must have come over as Dan could hear the magic behind his head.

"Good afternoon."

"Hey there, what can I get you guys?"

"I'm sorry, I just noticed these beers. Are these seats taken?"

"Two guys, they'll have just gone to the toilet."

"Together? My word." A giggle in response, he had her.

"So, what can I get you?"

"A scotch on the rocks for me and..." Dan had heard but didn't respond, listening but not processing the words, "...Make that two would you dear?"

"Coming up," Dan turned back around as she added, "Oh and when those two come back, I won't remember them or their lousy tips."

"You're a star," Eames gave her a wink. They had their first drink in silence or at least, personal silence broken by the clink of their glasses as a toast. It was while Eames was chatting up the barmaid as she got their second drink that the two men returned and were not happy with the situation.

"The hell, dude?"

"Yeah, the hell?"

Dan, emboldened by the company of Eames, just quipped, "Fellas, no need to worry yourselves. Nobody spiked your drinks, the plan with the bar mats worked a charm." Eames spat his first sip of scotch back into the glass at this.

"Dude."

"_Way _not cool."

"Oh of course. How rude of me," Dan picked up the two beers and offered them to their owners, "Here." Eames said nothing and the two suits gave pleading looks to the barmaid who simply shrugged.

"Fuck this place."

"Yeah, let's go." Dan and Eames raised a glass at their departure and shared a good, hearty laugh at their expense. After that Dan loosened up and the two discussed old times, old jobs and the memorable characters they met in the industry. Important, dangerous work reduced to a jest by professional hindsight. The noise of the establishment enough to cover the details of their work from those around them.

Dan couldn't swallow his drink fast enough to get out one tale, "Do you remember the extractor double-crossed by his own team?"

Eames laughed, "They fooled him into performing an extraction on himself?"

"Yes!" Dan pointed at him, "Poor bastard woke up with nothing! Silly sod. It's like the old days of spying, you just can't _trust_ anybody."

"Trust is still good though," Eames turned suddenly serious, "The inception job on Fischer wouldn't have worked without it."

"The trick," Dan took another sip of scotch and make a face, not drunk enough to ignore the fire in his throat, "The trick is knowing who to trust. I like you Eames I really do-" a gracious smile at the compliment and a mock bow, "-but if I went on holiday I wouldn't trust you to feed my fish, you know?"

"Well that would depend on how much the fish were worth," Dan was laughing before the reply was finished. There followed the silence of an exhausted line of conversation and a new topic was needed.

Dan blurted out a thought that slipped through the usual filter between his brain and mouth, "So where's Cobb?" Three drinks and his tongue was thoroughly loosened.

Eames shrugged and help up an empty glass for the attention of the barmaid, "Hell if I know - thanks darling - that man was a wreck on the last job." Eames was spilling things the drinks had let loose, "Bottom level, we're just about to plant the main idea and Cobb's bloody projection of Mal shoots the mark!" Dan listened and swallowed another mouthful of cold warmth. "Baggage. It drags people down throughout their lives, but only in dream-sharing does it become an actual threat to you and others."

"I'll drink to that," Dan chuckled as he added, "But then I've been under any longer than to watch my subconscious tear through the extractors I was tested with."

Eames was suddenly very interested and leaned in closer, "They tested you?"

"Some of my employers occasionally like to make sure they are getting value for money," Dan waved to the barmaid, "I'm bored of scotch, surprise me?"

"Sure honey."

"Everybody would want some sort of assurances for their secrets I suppose," Eames spoke to Dan but didn't take his eyes off the girl behind the bar.

"They have me looking at mazes until I could," he sighed and Eames joined him in repeating the old joke from dream-security orientation, "do them in my sleep." Dan had a good time in Eames' company over the following two hours. Patrons came, went and eventually they couldn't remember any faces from when they had come in. Eames broke into a serenade of the barmaid with a song from the jukebox and was politely asked to stop by the girl herself. But eventually, inevitably, the conversation steered its way back to the matter on Dan's mind from the moment he realised it was Eames on the phone.

And it was the man himself who started them down the line of questioning, "I don't know why you asked me if I know where Cobb is. You know I don't know and you know who _does._"

_Everybody always wants something._ "And you do too, I can assume." If anyone had been listening to their conversation, they wouldn't help but notice the sudden coldness and restrained anger in both men. As though they were about to lunge at each other.

"Castlebeck found me," Eames paused before he then admitted, "Fooled me into believing a dream was real."

"A name I haven't heard in years," Dan had calmed himself, "He insists upon John these days."

"Said he had a job for me - that he was going after Arthur." Their latest pair of drinks sat untouched and the barmaid came over, presumably the two seemed uncharacteristically quiet.

"Everything okay guys?" They both answered without looking at her.

"Just fine thanks."

"Sorry sugar, give the two of us five minutes," and after she had left them, "That may have just cost me another two dollars in a tip."

Dan got them back on track, "He would have needed another forger after his last job. Poor guy, Nathan his name was, went down for murder. John left him hanging out to dry.

Eames ran a finger around the lip of his whiskey glass, "The bank job to get Ruebens' totem, I know you're worried about telling me things that I don't already know."

"I might be well on my way to being drunk," Dan stopped for a belch that didn't quite make it all the way up and he swallowed it again, "But I'm not a moron."

"We're just talking," Eames insisted, "Two old friends talking about a third. What happened to him?"

"There was no great event that made him so bitter, he's just been ground further and further down with crap jobs," Dan was despondent, "Despite you calling me a powerful player and all the rest, I simply can't offer John the level of job his skills deserve. Everyone wanted Cobb and John - amongst others - has lost a lot of lucrative offers on account of your widowed friend."

"If your employer could have hired Cobb to find Cobb they would have," Eames joked, then drank.

"John has proven himself with some less than savoury tasks," Dan said and then sighed, "At the cost of other extractors' sanities and even lives, but we don't ever worry about things like that, do we?"

"You mean do I lose sleep over lying to Fischer about about his relationship with his Dad?" Eames then laughed to himself.

"John has been given scraps from the table for years and has been offered a chance at Cobb's chair with this extraction on Arthur," a moment's consideration of Eames and Dan continued, "Does Arthur know?"

"He does."

"From you?"

"No, they went after Ariadne."

"Makes sense," Dan downed his drink, no burn this time, "Where do your loyalties lie on this one?"

"Nowhere." For the first and final time, Dan knew that Eames was lying.

"Shall we go back to drinking?"

"Best idea you've had all day," Eames came back with the charm, "Hey gorgeous! Wiggle yourself over here and I'll buy one you one too!"

A number of drinks later, Dan had long lost count of exactly how many, as the room spun and voices hummed he turned to Eames. "Next time," there was a smile as he pointed a slender, accusatory finger. But he lost his train of thought and had to start over, "Next time my girlfriend answers the phone ask for me instead of chatting her up, please?" He received nothing but a grin from his drinking partner. "Now all she wants to talk about is how I am associated with such a polite and handsome-sounding Englishman. But I know... I know things." Dan was still telling himself he wasn't drunk, only lubricated.

Eames wiped something from the bar with a flat palm; dust, crumbs, force of habit, Dan couldn't tell, "Yes Dan, you know things. That's your job." He sounded bored, patronising like he was now just putting up with Dan's drunken company.

The middle man pushed himself away from his empty drink with both hands on the edge of the bar and made a face of angry confusion. "I know that I know things and that I _don't _know things that I know," his voice hushed and he drew Eames in close, "Things they buried too deep for me to remember of my own." He was drunk, couldn't lie to himself about that now, "Of my own? On my own. Another? You're buying after all."

Eames simply nodded, the barmaid from earlier had gone - her shift long over - and Eames got the attention of the young, tattooed man who had replaced her before pointing between their two empty glasses. All Dan saw was a flash of arms and clothes as a manhattan appeared in front of him. "What I mean is," he stifled another belch and continued, "Getting me drunk is useless for getting what you want to know. Only reason people look me up these days is to get something out of me." He had become moody, still suspicious of Eames' intentions after their full five hours of drinking together and talking.

"Have I asked you for anything at all so far?" Eames' belly was holding the alcohol a lot better than him, Dan saw. _Letting me talk myself into holes. _ Eames thanked and tipped the bartender who went back to cleaning glasses.

"You haven't. But you will. Everyone asks for something eventually," Dan slapped the bar, "Out with it!"

Eames put a hand on Dan's shoulder to find it shrugged off again almost immediately, "I just want to know where this Nathan is."

Dan laughed and laughed hard, "The sorts of things in my head and you ask me for something you could find out from just about _anyone_. Hell, I think it was even in the newspapers around the time."

"Can't go out for a drink and a catch-up with a newspaper now can I?"

Dan had rarely been left feeling so guilty, "Eames I think that after those lovely words I might just let you sleep with my Emily. My Emily? What does that even mean?" Dan broke down into a fit of giggles and told his old friend everything he wanted to know.

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><p><strong>AN: A beast of a chapter compared to the others but I just kept having little ideas of this surprise visit by Eames to the man in the know. This also marks the end of the story's build up, all ten chapters of it and John's extraction on Arthur will begin in the next chapter. Which I hope to get up before Monday because I will be disappearing on holiday for two weeks, visiting a friend in the USA. But lots of time spent waiting in airports will mean I can still get writing done.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I wrote the first half of this chapter whilst sleep deprived in Schipol airport on the outbound portion of my journey and the second half when sleep deprived in the same place on my return leg. And then I have only put the two halves together one week later. On a side note, be careful in Schipol when you realise the place has its own casino. I made 100 euros but it all could have went so very wrong instead.**

"This is the same Buick, I'm sure," Martin rolled down his window to spit on the sidewalk, "They just changed the plates to make us think we were getting a better model this time. That bastard at the rental place took us for a ride."

"It's not the same car," John said and stared at the entrance to the apartment building, "Firstly the glovebox isn't filled with empty coffee cups and secondly it's a different colour." Impatience turned Martin into an argumentative man-child who was more of a pain than usual to be around. The best way to deal with him in such a mood was to ignore his complaints and whining entirely, but the job had John on edge too and he was drawn into debate on the authenticity of their rental car.

"So he cleaned and painted it before he gave it to us again, it's not impossible."

"I suppose he had it re-upholstered too; the seats are different."

"Well sure, if he's going to the lengths of painting it then he'll change the seats too."

"But why?"

"What do you mean?" Martin turned, so much time spent wondering over the specifics of the conspiracy that he had overlooked the underlying motive.

"Why do all that to give us the same car?"

"To screw with us, obviously."

John then spoke to him with the condescending tone he would normally reserve for a child, "I am going to turn on the radio so that I don't have to listen to any more of your crap." The radio clicked into crackling life at the end of a song. As it faded out the voice of the disc jockey brought a smile across Martin's face and an ever increasing headache for John.

"This is JLPR, non-stop oldies. It's coming up to a quarter to eleven and we'll have another dose of the seventies before the night shi-" John clicked it back off in disgust and prepared for another round of argument.

"The same station!" Martin was triumphant, "In the same car."

"Coincidence. This is _not_ the same car," John's emphasis told Martin that any victory taken from this would have to remain personal and - more importantly - silent.

Roger, who had drawn the short straw for the back seat, obviously enjoyed the bickering and tried to reignite the issue with a quiet statement, "The guy might have just restored the old Buick-"

"Enough about the fucking car!" Silence then ensued aside from the rustle of food wrappers and the occasional stifled cough from Martin that would inevitably build in size to an all-out hacking fit. Another two days trapped in the confines of a car (not the same car, John was certain) watching Arthur's apartment and tailing his movements. To and from the store by day, to and from the warehouse by night. No visitors to his home, no conversations with acquaintances in the street and only the one accomplice at the warehouse.

Roger and Martin had followed him the first night, left John in the car. He nodded off in the driver's seat, no dreams to speak of, and was awoken by the click of a woman's heels returning home from a night on the tiles. A far off police siren became louder for a moment as Martin slipped back into the passenger's seat. "Roger?"

"We saw some other guy go into the warehouse after Arthur," Martin retrieved a cigarette, presumably to make up for all the exercise he had just done, "Roger wanted to check him out, told me to head back."

"You let him stay?"

"He wants to spend some six or seven hours waiting for a nobody, let him." They then slept for four hours each and John gave Martin a good shake as Arthur returned home at around seven, per usual. "That was sure worth waking me up for, thanks." He then rolled back toward with a muttered curse, white shirt creasing ever further. Some half hour later, Roger came happily strutting up the sidewalk from behind the car, John saw his smirk in the rearview mirror and got out to meet him.

"Martin not want to hear what I got to say too?"

"Let him sleep, it means he isn't talking if nothing else." John and Roger spoke in the quiet of the early morning, still before the rush hour. The birds sang in the trees that sprouted through prepared holes in the sidewalk. Roger talked about Arthur's work colleague. Skinny little runt who moved like a weasel through streets and alleyways in the half hour walk from his work in the warehouse to the rundown apartment building he stayed in during the day. A half hour walk?

"He didn't get the bus or a cab?"

"Judging by his dress and the shithole he lives in," Roger sounded tired, speaking just to get the words out, "Our boy has some money troubles. Might be the easiest way to get to him."

John sighed, another life to ruin, "You think he'll let us in there?"

"If a grand or two doesn't loosen his ethics then we could always just let Martin loose on him," Roger shrugged, "I don't mind saving money and sleeping beauty over there sure does love cracking his knuckles."

"This kid was there before Arthur?" They stood aside to let past a handful of mothers and a troupe of small children on their way to school.

"Yeah, we watched him come out after Arthur went in. He went to some all-night store, came back out with coffee and snacks to keep himself going."

"Arthur hires the kid to keep an eye on things whilst he's under?"

"Seems so."

"Well that works." They both turned to head back to the car, a head was popped out of the front passenger's window looking back at them.

"What works?" Martin rubbed the sleep from his eyes before looking up and down the exterior of the vehicle, "Wait a minute, I remember this car!"

It was that same afternoon - before the arguments about the car had become unbearable to John - that Roger led John to the kid's 'shithole' apartment and they hid in a doorway across the street, ignoring the offers of drugs and pleas of the other destitute who happened to pass by. As though on cue, a car alarm sounded one street over and Roger laughed, "He knows how to pick 'em, find some kid from the asshole of the city with nothing but dreams and aspirations and show how he can make them a reality."

John mused, "Now I wonder where he got an idea like that from." They stood in the doorway for an hour, which was long for John to become concerned that they had been made and the kid had run off to tell Arthur that were a shady pair watching his apartment. This fear instantly vanished at two words from Roger, his eyes looking down the busy street.

"That's him."

The door to the place was solid, the latch was not. Roger fell through the entrance, one shoulder forward, to find the skinny weasel watching cartoons in his underwear and a bowl of cereal in one hand. He was an unkempt, unshaven mess with a dark mop of hair and milk dribbled from his chin as he watched them enter. The place, a one-room-serves-all dump, was a mess. Dishes piled high on the sink and the table, the bed awash with clothes and the sort of musty smell that you might expect in an old people's home. He sat on the torn couch in silence, in shock for some time as the two checked the room was empty before he spoke to them, "W-what you guys after? I ain't got shit worth stealing."

"That's for damn sure," Roger switched on the light in the tiny bathroom and peered in, "You need to get yourself a house cleaner or something. Christ, at least put the seat down."

"Calm yourself," John was scarcely reassuring, "It's your boss we're after. Not you."

"Oh shit, oh shit," the greasy haired yelp started hyperventilating, "Arthur said there would be guys after him. He thought you would go straight to the warehouse and I was to wake him up if you came."

"He's going to play by our rules, not the other way round," Roger walked over and switched off the TV set.

"You're going to work tonight," John smiled, "Just like you did last night and the night before. You're going to go out for coffee and snacks. And we're going to come back in with you. Do this and we give you two thousand dollars. Warn him and we'll kill you. Simple as that."

* * *

><p>Arthur looked over his shoulder. Twice, just to make sure. Paranoid had always been a part of his daily routine; a general mistrust of any stranger who happened to converse with him and extra mistrust of anyone who wasn't a stranger to him. Confident that he didn't have a tail he entered the store to get the early edition of tomorrow's paper and a disgusting instant coffee to pep him up for the walk to the warehouse. It was the waiting that frustrated even more than the idea of somebody coming after him. Knowing that there were men after him was nothing new, working with Cobb had more than gotten him used to that, but this was different.<p>

Cobal's hired mooks were hard-headed and full frontal in their methods, the men Eames had warned him of would wait until he was under or at least until he got to the warehouse before they made their move. Each walk to work was for Arthur an exercise in suspense, anticipation and eventually disappointment. To the extent that he began to concern himself with the idea that this was part of some wider mind game being played on him. That they had taken up shop across the street and took note of his reaction upon arriving at work to find only William waiting for him.

William. A kid from the wrong side of the tracks (as much as he loathed the cliché) he met at the late-night store. He had asked Arthur for a light and got himself a job instead watching over things whilst Arthur was dreaming, a boring job but one that paid very well for the work involved. He hired the kid because he reminded Arthur of himself and felt as though he could trust him, as such he actually trusted him less than anybody else. It's the ones closest to you who often go through with betrayal, stabbing is always easier when the target's back was to you. And his suspicions were only raised further when he arrived at the warehouse that night.

"Anything the matter, Will?" Arthur stepped out of the warehouse's freight elevator and slid the shutters back across behind him, "You seem on edge."

"No sir," sweat on the forehead, "Everything is sweet."

"It's okay," Arthur walked slowly over, removing his overcoat, "If they've gotten to you, you can tell me. I've been waiting patiently for them to make their move. How much did they offer you?"

He hesitated, "I can't."

"You can."

"They said they'd kill me!"

"They won't, I won't get in their way," Arthur gave him a warm smile, "I just want to have an idea of what is going to happen."

"I- I'm to wait 'til you're sleeping then let them in here," William was almost in tears, "Sorry, I'm so sorry dude. But it's just so much cash."

"Don't worry," Arthur walked passed him toward the table with the PASIV device and continued to talk without turning, "Just calm yourself before you go out there, don't let them know you've filled me in or you won't get the money."

"Arthur, I'm sorry." The last words he heard before he went under, telling himself he was ready for whatever they could throw at him and not believing it for a second.


End file.
